Plague Child

by Peter Ransley

  It was a cloudy but warm day, and the double doors to the entrance hall were open. From the street I could see into the black-and-white checkerboard tiled hall, lined with pictures and Greek busts. Servants scurried about in green silk livery embroidered at the chest in silver wire with the forbidding falcon. Lord Stonehouse’s role in the Great Twelve was to head the Committee of Requisition and Intelligence. This, I discovered later, was the official name for plunder. Most prominent Royalists had left London. Their houses were being seized and searched for arms or letters as well as silver plate, which was to be melted down for coinage to pay the militia. The raider usually took a percentage of the choicer pieces for his trouble. In the City, old scores were being settled under the guise of legitimacy. Benyon had fled with what he could cram in a coach before his fine house in Thames Street was stripped by rival merchants. All this meant a constant flow of visitors to the house in Queen Street.

  A corpulent man descended from a coach handing a card to a servant, who dropped it into a silver salver where there was a nest of similar cards, calling out to someone I could not see: ‘Sir Samuel Pope on the Marquess of Hamilton’s business.’ My foot was in the air, almost on the first marble step. The servant’s eye rested on me. It had the beady, penetrating look of the falcon. It was then I lost heart. What could I say? ‘Thomas Neave, on the business of bastardy’?

  I walked on, with a pretence of casually idling by. It was as I returned that I heard him. The whole street heard his rich, savage tones through an open first-floor window. There were interruptions in a quieter voice, but they were swept away. ‘Is that all you have come to tell me? That you have not changed your mind! I don’t know how you dare come here when your friends have fled! Do you think I’ll protect you? . . . Do not interrupt me! . . . Sincere? If I could believe that!’

  The other voice broke through, higher-pitched but just as virulent, a voice at the end of its tether. ‘I am, Father, I am! I believe in this more than anything else in my life!’

  ‘You believe in nothing but the throw of the dice! You’re gambling Parliament will lose and you’ll get the estates!’

  ‘That’s a foul thing to say! You’re wrong! You’re going against your God, your King –’

  At that point Lord Stonehouse must have remembered the casement window was open. He strode over and shut it. His face was distorted with anger. He was breathing so heavily he rested for a moment, closing his eyes, before swivelling round and disappearing from view. The servants all had their backs to me, straining to hear. It was an impulse, done as the thought was entering my head. I sprang up the steps and picked up a card from the bottom of the salver, holding it out as the servant turned. I had noticed that a number of servants ferried guests through, and I was gambling that this servant had not dealt with the gentleman whose card I proffered. He stared at the card then coldly at me. My stomach lurched to the bottom of my expensive leather boots but then ‘Sir Andrew Marham!’ he called, tossing the card back into the salver. What I had not seen from the street was that the next barrier was a scrivener, half-hidden behind a pillar.

  He had his head turned towards the elaborately carved balustrade of the staircase – another falcon, with coneys and hares caught in his talons – catching another tirade from Lord Stonehouse on the first-floor gallery, before a door slammed, followed by a shattering of glass. The scrivener, a small wizened man with spectacles, winced. ‘Not the best day to see his lordship, Sir Andrew,’ he said, before frowning. ‘Sir Andrew?’ He consulted a list in front of him. His voice rose. ‘Sir Andrew is already waiting.’

  Behind me I could hear the approaching rap of the servant’s shoes on the marble floor. I felt everyone’s attention was on me. In desperation I did the only thing I could think of – I produced the truth, even if I had to gild it a little. I smiled. ‘Thank goodness he has not gone in to his lordship.’ I took a handkerchief from my cuff, with a flourish I had learned from Turville, and wiped my forehead. ‘I am Sir Andrew’s secretary. He forgot some papers. And I must give him a message.’ I drew from my pocket the letter Turville had sent evicting Mr Black, which bore the magic seal of the falcon.

  The rap of the servant’s shoes approaching me stopped. The scrivener picked up his quill. ‘Your name, sir?’

  ‘Thomas Neave,’ I said stupidly, but automatically. He stopped in the act of dipping his quill. I feared he knew the name from my pamphlets. He peered up at me sharply, but evidently deciding that my rich blue velvet and lace could not possibly clothe a gutter object like a pamphleteer, wrote in his book Thomas Neave Esq. which, I must admit, gave me a thrill of pleasure. He directed me between statues of Mars and Minerva to a reception room with an oval ceiling painted with nymphs being chased by satyrs.

  Three gentlemen, deep in conversation, one of whom was presumably Sir Andrew, looked up and then ignored me. I was full of myself with the success of my deception. I would seize the right moment, see Lord Stonehouse, and be gracious but firm. I would appeal to his better nature in telling him I wanted nothing from him but my own life. It never occurred to me that he might not have a better nature, that it might have been lost a long time ago.

  Sir Samuel, the corpulent man from the coach, who occupied most of a silk upholstered couch, shook his head as the distant argument above ebbed and flowed. He gave it as his opinion that if Richard Stonehouse did join the King he would be finally disinherited. A lean, clever-looking man, squeezed into a corner, who turned out to be Sir Andrew, disagreed. Whatever happened, Lord Stonehouse always forgave his eldest son. What mattered to Lord Stonehouse was blood. The third man, whom they called Jacob, was much younger than the others. Perched uncomfortably on a squab, hungry to join in, he said there was a second son.

  ‘Edward!’ Sir Andrew smiled. ‘He has milk, not blood in his veins.’

  ‘Mother’s milk, at that,’ murmured Sir Samuel, and the two men laughed.

  Stung, the young man declared that he had heard, on good authority, if Richard was cut off, a bastard stood to inherit. The other two laughed uproariously at this. Sir Samuel clapped the young man on the back, dislodging the papers he was carrying, and almost squeezed Sir Andrew from the couch with the shaking of his stomach.

  ‘You have swallowed that one!’ Sir Samuel glanced towards me as I stared studiously at a satyr chasing a nymph across the blue sky. He wiped his eyes. ‘You are good value for a dull wait, Jacob. Depend upon it, sir, there is no such person. He is a figment of Lord Stonehouse’s imagination, put about to bring his errant son to heel. Unfortunately, it has had the opposite effect.’

  I was beginning to enjoy my entry into good society when I heard Eaton in the hall, cutting across the well-fed tones of Sir Samuel with a voice as sharp as vinegar, demanding to know who was waiting. I cursed myself for giving my own name and shot to the door to see Eaton picking up the scrivener’s book. I slipped across the hall towards a door, but as I reached it the handle began to turn and I glimpsed the livery of a servant emerging. Beside me was the statue of Minerva. There was just enough space to squeeze behind it as Eaton exploded.

  ‘Thomas Neave!’

  ‘Sir Andrew’s secretary, Mr Eaton.’

  ‘Sir Andrew’s –’

  I pressed myself as tightly as possible behind the statue but the stone curve of her skirt bulged into me so part of my doublet protruded. Eaton strode towards me. If he looked down he was bound to see me, but his eyes were on the waiting room. He marched in, the abject scrivener and the servant on duty in the hall trailing after him. There was a confused babble of voices. I did not stop to hear the outcome. The hall was empty. I ran up the grand stairway and on to the gallery. The walls had alcoves at intervals containing looking glasses and richly wrought cabinets. Passing a pair of double doors I heard the murmur of voices close to the door. Lord Stonehouse’s was so different from the violent hectoring tone that at first I did not recognise it.

  ‘This is for you and you alone . . . I can trust you in this?’

  ‘Yes, Fat
her.’

  ‘The doctors say I have one year. Perhaps a little more.’

  There was a commotion downstairs. From the gallery I could see Eaton haranguing the servants. Doors were opening and closing. Eaton hurried across the hall towards the stairs. I darted down a corridor. Tried a door but it was locked. I heard the double doors opening and slipped to one of the alcoves behind a cabinet as Lord Stonehouse and his son came out. In the alcove looking glass near the top of the stairs I saw Eaton hurrying up, stop and hesitate. Lord Stonehouse had his arm round his son. He gave Eaton a single, angry look and the steward slowly retreated.

  It was the first time I had seen Richard at such close quarters. Ringlets framed a face that was so handsome it made me catch my breath. His eyes were dark and piercing and shone with tears that he was struggling to hold back. ‘I cannot change my mind. I cannot!’

  ‘I know, I know! I did not tell you for that reason, but – we may not see each other again.’

  ‘Don’t say that!’

  Lord Stonehouse smiled. I had seen that smile before, but always believed it was a dream. It was not the smile of a ruthless man who had ordered Eaton to have me thrown into the pit, or to evict Mr Black from his house, but that of the man who had bent over me years ago when I had fainted from the pitch burn. ‘Well, well . . . I believe you are sorry!’ he said to his son.

  Richard could not speak then, but flung his arms round his father. I looked away. Richard had hired two men to kill me. It was difficult, almost impossible to believe. I wished I had not come. Not seen this. I had come thinking them to be purely evil men whom, if I could not fight, I might at least outwit. Lord Stonehouse laughed. He had a rich, deep laugh which transformed his face – there was a memory in it of those happier times I had seen in the portrait with his wife Frances. ‘It is strange . . .’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  Choked with emotion, his father’s voice was an almost inaudible murmur. ‘I am proud of you.’

  ‘Proud?’ Richard grinned in astonishment. ‘I can’t remember you ever saying that to me before.’

  ‘I can’t remember you ever doing anything you really believed in.’

  He stared across at a portrait of Charles I. Richard followed his gaze. If they had looked to one side they would have seen me as I pressed back into the alcove, but they only had eyes for their King. Richard stood up, straight and proud, his voice now welling with emotion. ‘I do believe in him.’

  ‘I know. I can see that now. I wish, I wish I could, but . . . God go with you, Son.’

  ‘God bless you, Father.’

  Again they embraced, then Lord Stonehouse strode back into his room. Richard walked across the gallery towards the stairs. Every muscle in me tensed. As soon as Richard Stonehouse went downstairs, and before Eaton had a chance to come up, I planned to be in Lord Stonehouse’s room. What I had just witnessed gave me hope. Underneath his ruthlessness was a man of deep feeling, who would, I was convinced, listen to my appeal.

  I darted from the alcove as Lord Stonehouse went into his room. I had a glimpse of rich hanging tapestries before I caught sight of Richard Stonehouse returning up the stairs. I froze. Any movement would betray me. I sucked in air, too scared to let it out in case he heard me. Richard entered the room and I heard him say: ‘My hat.’ He came out almost immediately, putting an elaborately feathered contraption on his head as he walked away. I slowly let out air and took in more to still my pounding heart.

  He was almost out of sight but, not quite satisfied with the set of the hat, stopped at one of the looking-glass alcoves to adjust it. His fingers stilled. It was a split second before I realised he could see me in the glass. I do not think he quite believed what the glass told him. Perhaps he thought I was a ghost, for I could not move or say a word. I wished I was a ghost, that I could vanish as abruptly as he thought I had appeared. The venom in his eyes held me mute like a rabbit trapped by a snake.

  ‘You,’ he said softly. ‘You.’

  He came close enough to touch the velvet of my doublet. My clothes seemed to act on him like a match to gunpowder. When he had nearly run me down at the royal procession I looked like a laughable freak in my second-hand clothes. Now, while I was no match for Richard in his fastidious dress of a courtier, from the large, florid rosettes on his shoes to the plumes in his hat, I unmistakably had the look of a gentleman. He had half unsheathed his sword when he saw his father standing at the door. Lord Stonehouse’s mouth hung open. He blinked and blinked again. If Richard thought he saw a ghost, his father was convinced of it. I opened my mouth:

  ‘I –’

  It was the only word I uttered. The personal pronoun was enough. I existed. I was alive. Richard ignored me. He would not speak to me. I was unspeakable. The words he said to his father were acid with anguished bitterness. ‘Couldn’t you wait until I was gone?’

  ‘I had no idea he was here!’

  ‘He let himself in, I suppose?’ His sword came out in a blur of movement which brought the point to my throat. He expected me to skip back but I would not. Moments before I had been so moved I’d had the impulse to embrace him and his father. Now I stared back with a hatred that matched his own. ‘Bought this fine lace with his wretched, seditious pamphlets, I suppose?’ With a flick of the blade he ripped away my lace collar. I instinctively jerked back. From that moment they ignored me. I had torn open an old wound and with every word they lacerated it further.

  ‘I have not seen this boy for years and that is the truth!’

  ‘You old hypocrite!’

  His father’s face reddened so, I thought a blood vessel had burst. ‘Do not dare talk to me like that!’

  ‘Proud? You were proud to be rid of me, weren’t you?’

  ‘That is not true! I meant every word I said.’

  There was such agony in Lord Stonehouse’s voice I struggled to interrupt, to clear up the misunderstanding, but I might as well have tried to walk through a hurricane. They pushed me to one side against the balustrade. Down in the hall I could see the servants, the waiting visitors and Eaton staring up. He gave me a vicious look, but even he dared not interrupt. Eventually, when they had torn their voices hoarse, Richard walked away down the stairs, only then seeming aware of the spellbound people in the hall.

  Lord Stonehouse stood at the top of the stairs. Broken veins throbbed in his cheek, and spittle soiled the linen at his neck, but he was an impressive, forbidding figure nonetheless. He was tall and had not run to too much fat. Muscles stood out in his arms which could still control a horse or wield a sword. His hair was shorter than his son’s and had more dark than grey in it. He was carelessly dressed in black, his status shown only by the small gold-and-enamel medal of St George at his throat, the insignia of the Garter, worn, perhaps, to remind his son that he had once been a close confidant of the King. He was so used to an audience and too powerful to care what they thought, that he addressed his son as if there was no one there.

  ‘Richard! Come back . . .’ The first word was a command, the last ended in a plea. Richard caught the tone and hesitated. He turned, his face, which was as haughty and as proud as his father’s, was also awash with the same uncertainty, with a longing to return to the way they had originally parted before he saw me. If one had moved down a step, or the other up, they might have done so. But each was too proud to do so, and as if regretting his conciliatory tone Lord Stonehouse jerked his head towards his room and said gruffly, ‘Come.’ But when Richard turned away the old man’s rage burst out: ‘I’ll have you arrested!’

  Richard unsheathed his sword, the blade almost catching the scrivener as he fell back against his desk. ‘I’ll see you in hell, Father,’ he yelled. ‘You and that impostor!’

  Chapter 21

  I was locked in a closet. All that long day, after the violence of Richard’s departure, there had been a brooding silence, broken only by whispers and the sound of carriages arriving and departing. The closet was an annex to the library, now used as a storeroom for cor
respondence seized from Royalist families. A passage marked by Parliamentary intelligence on one blotted page pleaded with a relative to ‘. . . take the Children & the Family Plate to the Countrie before the Harveste is inne and this Dismal Businesse begins’.

  It was evening and the candles were lit when two servants took me upstairs. They would not answer my questions, or even look at me. They knew, as servants always know, that I was the plague child, and treated me as if I was still contagious.

  I was taken into Lord Stonehouse’s study and motioned to a spot some distance from his desk. Lord Stonehouse sat in a pool of light from the candelabra burning over his head. With him was a man I took to be his secretary, who gave him papers to sign. Lord Stonehouse drank some wine, belched, moved to sign a paper, then stopped.

  ‘Eight horses?’

  ‘Eight, my lord.’

  ‘I know the Duke of Richmond’s stable. He has twelve fine Barbary horses. Find what has happened to them, will you, Mr Cole?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  He pushed the paper away unsigned. His voice remained equable, unemotional. ‘Horses and plate. Any soldier, officer or no, convicted of stealing them must not only be hanged but kept hanging as a warning to the others. Anything else?’

  The secretary indicated me, bowing as he withdrew. Lord Stonehouse stared at me as if he had forgotten all about me. I am sure this was not an affectation. He had the administrator’s ability to dismiss one problem entirely from his head while he dealt with others. He looked at me as if I was a piece of paper on his desk. ‘You thought you would plot against me, did you?’