by Stella Riley
So Luciano rode on with a face like thunder because, in solving one problem, he’d created a host of others. He had walked in on Kate and Clifford because Kate’s catastrophic revelation had proved that Richard had read the situation correctly … and, since Luciano himself was responsible, it was up to him to mend matters. So far so good. He just wished to God he could change the means he had used thereafter; for with the results of them clamouring in his head, he could see now how monumentally stupid he had been.
They passed the night at Deddington. Luciano sent Selim away and shut himself in his room with a bottle of brandy which, in the end, he did not touch because becoming drink-sodden twice in one week looked like a habit. Instead, he stared moodily into the fire and contemplated the ramifications of his actions.
When he’d entered the room, Kate had looked worried and Clifford not nearly as downcast as he should have done if all his hopes had been blighted – which suggested that whatever Kate had said hadn’t had the desired effect. This wasn’t surprising. Clifford was besotted and therefore wasn’t about to bow out gracefully. Luciano couldn’t blame him for that. He’d do the same himself, after all – which was how he knew that Clifford wouldn’t back off completely unless he had nothing left to hope for; and catching Kate in another man’s arms was the quickest and surest way to achieve that.
So Luciano had kissed her.
Fine. But did you have to be so bloody thorough about it? he asked himself. Couldn’t you just have put an arm round her and touched her cheek and been satisfied with a mere brush of her lips? Clifford had left the door open. All you had to do was time it right. So did you really have to let it go that far?
And, harsh and bitter, the answer came back.
Yes, of course you did. From the moment you held her … from the instant she put her arms around you … the rest was inevitable. And you knew it would be. You’ve known since that night at Whitehall. And now you know you wanted more than a kiss. And still do.
Well, there was nothing new in that. He’d spent most of his adult life wanting things he couldn’t have. It had just never previously occurred to him that he might one day want something that the duty he owed his father and the uncertainly of his own future made completely impossible.
His hand strayed towards the brandy bottle. He withdrew it and concentrated instead on doing what he always did with pointless emotions. He faced up to them, accepted them for what they were … and then locked them securely away in a box at the back of his mind where they couldn’t trouble him. Unfortunately, there was one thing he found himself unable to hide from.
Kissing Kate had ended what she’d been unable to end herself. But he hadn’t bargained for the burden of knowledge it brought about the precise nature of her feelings for him. It had been one thing to guess at some transient infatuation. It was quite another to know, beyond all doubt, that she loved him – for, if the first was unfortunate, the second was nothing sort of disaster. But so it was. Her response to his mouth had been both extraordinary and unmistakeable; and when he’d finally broken the kiss, she had looked as though he’d plucked the stars from the sky and filled her hands with them. Without warning, he had brought them both face to face with a truth that would have been better left hidden. She loved him and was now painfully aware that he knew it. He wasn’t sure how to handle that – or how Kate would. But the worst of it was what he’d done next. He’d deliberately made her think that the kiss was merely the means to an end – because, if he hadn’t, she might have hoped for something he couldn’t give. So he’d destroyed that beautiful, luminous expression and was unable to forget the look that had replaced it. The look that had still been there when she hit him.
The slap had nearly dislocated his jaw and was no more than he deserved. He’d acted without due consideration and would have to live with the knowledge of Kate’s hurt and make it easier for her by staying away from Thorne Ash. And Richard? Richard would be glad to see the back of Clifford but less than happy that Kate had been humiliated in the process. Another man whose daughter had been compromised and not offered reparation would simply knock his teeth down his throat. Richard probably wouldn’t … but their friendship was unlikely ever to be quite the same again. Luciano told himself that shouldn’t matter so very much. He was used to isolation and had managed well enough without the Maxwells before. So why, beneath the core of anger, was he conscious only of a feeling of loss?
He became aware that his hand was again reaching for the bottle.
‘Oh hell!’ he said raggedly. ‘Not that way. I might as well cut my throat.’
And, without thought, he hurled it violently against the wall.
It didn’t, unfortunately, help very much.
* * *
The following morning found him composed but still disinclined to talk and, having seen the mess made by the brandy bottle, Selim recognised the wisdom of keeping his own mouth very firmly shut. Their journey was therefore completed more or less in silence and the Turk was heartily glad when it was over.
Having been in the parliamentary hands of Lord Saye & Sele until just before Edgehill, Oxford was understandably nervous and had taken to keeping its gates closed twenty-four hours a day. Luciano unlocked his tongue long enough to get them inside and then led the way uncommunicatively to the Mitre Inn where he engaged rooms and ordered food before leaving Selim to his own devices again. Having glimpsed a particularly curvaceous serving-maid, Selim accepted this philosophically and hoped that the morrow would bring forth an improvement.
It did – but not much. He was summoned to his master’s quarters at a little after eight and subjected to a barrage of crisp orders, the point of which largely escaped him.
‘You will begin,’ said Luciano, ‘by discovering the whereabouts of Thomas Ferrars. His wife referred to the New College district so it shouldn’t be too difficult. And then the real work starts.’
‘Efendim?’ A hopeful gleam lit Selim’s eye and he fingered his knife.
‘No. Not that. I want to know everything about them; their friends, their habits, their comings and goings. I want to know which shops they patronise – where they buy literally everything from candles to capons. Again – given your way with maidservants – it shouldn’t be a problem. Well?’
‘It is as you wish,’ said Selim weakly. ‘But why? Why cannot we just find him and visit him as before?’
‘Because the same game won’t work twice,’ came the cold reply. ‘Also, this time I don’t intend to take any chances. This time I want Ferrars in the palm of my hand. So if you’ve no further questions, perhaps we could get on? Surprising as it may seem, you’re not the only one with work to do.’
Luciano began by paying a series of apparently idle calls on various local goldsmiths and bankers during which he learned that, while the universities wholeheartedly supported the King, the town did not and was enthusiastic only about staying out of the quarrel. True, chains and posts had been hurriedly erected in the last few weeks – but against who seemed open to debate. And though the students had dug defences on the north side, everyone else had remained perfectly indifferent when Lord Saye immediately destroyed them again. It lent a new dimension to the old town-and-gown feud and was not helped by uncertainty over the recent battle. Since Lord Essex had left the London road clear by moving towards Warwick, it seemed likely that His Majesty had indeed won; but rumour had it that, in Westminster, bells and bonfires had been celebrating a victory for the Parliament. So, all in all, no one really knew what to believe.
The goldsmiths also waxed loud and long in their complaint about the arrival in Oxford of some of the most powerful Lombard usurers from the capital. Luciano sympathised and collected names and locations; then, well-satisfied, he set off on a tour of his compatriots’ establishments.
Since, apart from occasional Guild meetings at the Goldsmiths’ Hall, he had generally had very little to do with them, he was not exactly welcomed with open arms; but respect for his skill with the gold meant th
at nobody actually turned him away and, when he was able to allay certain very natural fears, he was even offered wine.
The third glass was taken with Salvatore Morello, an elegant grey-haired gentleman of roughly his uncle’s age who appeared almost pleased to see him. Luciano kept his surprise to himself, asked no questions and answered those put to him with polite suavity. Yes, he was but lately arrived in Oxford; no, he did not intend to remove his sign from Cheapside; and yes, he was pursuing a matter of business which – though really quite insignificant in itself – demanded his personal attention.
Signor Morello relaxed still further and broached a second glass.
‘I wonder,’ he said tentatively, ‘if you might feel inclined, then, to do me a small favour?’
Luciano professed himself happy to serve the signor in any way that lay in his power and enquired the nature of the favour.
‘It is this. I have been approached to assist in the setting up of the King’s own coinage here in Oxford. It is hoped that the Master of the Mint will succeed in leaving London with the authentic dies … but if he does not, new ones will have to be made.’
‘And that, no doubt, is where you come in?’
‘It is where I have been asked to come in,’ replied the signor wryly. ‘Unfortunately, I have lost my best assistant and my own hands and eyes are not what they were. As for the others I might ask, they are mostly intent on staying neutral.’
‘Unlike yourself, it seems.’ Luciano’s gaze remained fixed on the ruby brightness in his glass.
‘What can one do? It is a matter of self-preservation. We are foreigners and Catholics – and if this Parliament has its way, we will all be ruined and cast out. Our only chance lies with the King … so it seems common sense to help him.’ He hesitated and then added delicately, ‘It was my impression that you had long held this view yourself?’
‘Meaning I’m known to have thrown good money after bad into the quicksands of Whitehall?’ The lean mouth curled astringently. ‘Yes. But I didn’t do that for love, you know – and would sooner not go on doing it. However, I suppose that I, too, would prefer the throne to be occupied by King Charles rather than King Pym … so I’ll do what I can to aid you.’
‘That is uncommonly good of you.’ The older man beamed. ‘And if there is anything I may offer you in return, I hope you won’t hesitate to mention it.’
‘Recompense? Perish the thought.’ Still twirling the stem of his glass between long, elegant fingers, Luciano looked blandly into the other man’s face. ‘On the other hand … it is possible that you may be able to … expedite … the matter that brought me here.’
‘Of course.’ Signor Morello spread expressive hands. ‘And this is?’
‘A small business transaction. There is a gentleman currently residing in Oxford who I have reason to believe is indebted to one or other of our colleagues. I would find it useful to acquire any bond he may have incurred … and even more useful to do so without becoming prominent in the affair.’ He paused. ‘It is a question of honour, you understand.’
‘Perfectly,’ nodded the signor. And thought, Caught some fellow trifling with his sister and plans teach him a lesson, no doubt. Good luck to him. Aloud, he said, ‘You may rely on my absolute discretion. But I will need the gentleman’s name.’
‘By all means.’ Eyes and voice were smooth as silk. ‘His name is Thomas Ferrars.’
* * *
Selim eventually ran the Ferrars’ household to earth in Holywell Street and then set about the not entirely unrewarding task of ingratiating himself with Bess, the maidservant. This was the easy part. More difficult was the process of getting the information he wanted without arousing the girl’s suspicions; but by the time he’d given her a spangled scarf, a posy-ring and a tiny vial of rose water, his path became much smoother; and after he’d seduced her by the riverside his problems were non-existent.
The town, meanwhile, was thrown into chaos when the King arrived with both nephews and his army. The university professed itself ‘gilded by the beams’ of His Majesty’s presence; but the town fretted over the alarming profusion of buff-coats and the artillery compound in Magdalen Grove. And then, as quickly as they had come, they were gone again in the direction of Reading and – presumably – London. The town heaved a sigh of relief; the university applauded His Majesty’s decision to make Oxford his headquarters; and Luciano bought Thomas Ferrars’ bond from Signor Morello for the sum of two thousand seven hundred and twenty pounds.
Well-satisfied with his progress, he allowed the first days of November to slip by while he waited for Selim to complete his mission and spent his own time working on the currency dies with Salvatore Morello. Since misuse of these could leave him open to the capital charge of counterfeiting, he had no intention of quitting Oxford without first seeing them bestowed in the correct quarter; and in the meantime a sudden influx of news provided daily stimulation.
The Earl of Essex, for example, had arrived in London to a victor’s welcome and a five thousand pound incentive at around the same time the King was receiving commissioners from the Parliament for the purpose of discussing peace. But if the latter was true, it did not appear to have done much good – for the next thing Oxford heard was news of twin skirmishes at Brentford and Turnham Green which effectively prevented His Majesty from entering London. The result of this was that the House of Commons became less eager for a Peace Treaty – which Luciano seriously doubted they’d ever really wanted in the first place – and the King fell back to Reading where the heir to the throne contracted measles.
By the latter half of the month, Selim was able to furnish his master with a remarkably extensive list of shop-keepers patronised by Thomas and Alice Ferrars. Luciano examined it at length and then, looking up at his henchman, said, ‘You’ve done well. I think we are in a position to begin at last.’
Selim evinced signs of cautious pleasure.
‘Now you will seek the man out, efendim?’
‘No. I shall cause him to seek me.’ He smiled slowly. ‘So much more satisfying, don’t you think? Or no. You’d probably prefer me to simply slit his throat and have done with it. But cheer up. The end will be worth the means, I assure you. And, in the meantime, you may take a holiday.’
* * *
While Charles Stuart was swallowing his disappointment over his uncle of Denmark’s reluctance to help him and simultaneously rejecting the Parliament’s suggestion that he abandon his supporters and return to Westminster, signs of incipient crisis became evident in Holywell Street. And by the time the King had returned to make Christ Church both his own residence and the centre of his Court, the first fissures had already appeared in Alice Ferrars’ perennially uncertain temper.
As always, her husband wilted under her tongue and vowed to put matters right. He only wished he knew how he was going to do it. The trouble was that money slipped through Alice’s fingers like water and always had. From the moment he’d first fallen victim to her cool, blonde beauty, he’d never been out of debt; and just now – in addition to the increasing number of tradesmen that were suddenly and inexplicably demanding settlement in full before supplying further goods – he owed four thousand to a Jew in Worcester and another two to the Lombard, Bernardo Ricci.
It was enough to make a braver man blow his brains out. But Thomas lacked that kind of resolution and was, in any case, less concerned about his debts than about his inability to provide Alice with all the luxuries she demanded. For this was his driving compulsion; a deep-rooted fixation that, whatever she wanted, she must have. It would be his undoing one day – he knew that. But still he could not help himself; and at least it lured Alice to be kind.
Unfortunately, however – unless he could sweet-talk the vintner, the silk-merchant and the fishmonger [to name but three] – the kindness was destined to disappear for good. And if that happened, Thomas knew that he might just as well put a pistol to his head.
He visited all the tradesmen in turn; threatening, cajoli
ng and finally pleading – but all to no avail. And then, in desperation, he sought out Bernardo Ricci and attempted to extend his bond by an extra thousand.
Signor Ricci listened courteously and with attention. Then, he said gently, ‘But my dear sir - I no longer hold your bond. Surely you knew? It was purchased from me some weeks ago by one Salvatore Morello. And I have to say that – from what you tell me of your affairs – it seems I was wise to sell.’ He smiled a little. The look on Ferrars’ face suggested that Salvatore might catch a cold over this one – and he, Bernardo, wasn’t averse to letting him. A quiet word in the other usurer’s ears, he reflected, might be no bad thing. The smile grew and he said, ‘I sympathise, Mr Ferrars. I do indeed. But the only advice I can give is to suggest that you place your difficulties before Signor Morello. You will find his house opposite the Corn Exchange. And now I’m afraid I must bid you good-day.’
Afflicted by a palsy-like tremor, Thomas made it out into the street and turned his feet in the direction of the Corn Exchange. Buff-coats and scarlet cloaks mingled with the rainbow silks of the Court ladies. He pushed his way through them, conscious of nothing save the fact that – now His Majesty resided in Oxford – nothing was going to persuade Alice to leave it. She wanted to be part of that bright, elegant company and would have preferred it if he’d donned a buff-coat and gone to war with the rest. But he couldn’t do that, not even for Alice.
Signor Morello was not at home. Thomas left his name, returned home for a taste of his wife’s temper and went back again the next day. This time the signor received him … and within ten minutes, Thomas wished he hadn’t.
‘I cannot extend your bond, Mr Ferrars, because it is no longer in my possession. Indeed, having purchased it on behalf of another, it was barely in my hands for a day.’
