by Davies, J. D
The Duke of York nodded gravely. ‘Thus by my order, gentlemen, we will employ the line of battle as our tactic of choice during the campaign to come. Once we put to sea, we will practice the evolutions of forming our line, maintaining it through such manoeuvres as tacking, reversing it – yes, Your Highness?’
Prince Rupert had clearly been growing impatient during Penn’s exposition, and now he began drumming his fingers upon the table. ‘It is un-English, this line of battle of yours,’ he said in his strong Rhineland accent. ‘We should go at the enemy ship-on-ship. Battle at sea should be like a cavalry charge, honourable and inexorable, where the sheer force of the gallop –’ The prince was looking around the table, trying to turn others to his point of view, and at that moment his eyes finally settled upon me. In that one, fleeting second, he and I both saw the magnificent, inexorable charge of his own cavalry at Naseby, sweeping all before it; and then riding off the field in search of plunder, leaving my father to die and the Duke of York’s father to lose his crown and his head. I do not know what expression was upon my face, but I saw Rupert’s change. He halted in mid-sentence, looked back at the Duke, and said quietly ‘But if it is the will of Your Royal Highness and of the majority of this council that we fight in line, then so be it.’
‘Never witnessed that before,’ said Marlborough later, as the council was breaking up. ‘His Highness taking up a position and then retreating from it so quickly, that is. And remember, I saw the prince at councils of war twenty years ago, when he was captain-general of the king’s army, so I know him well. The most forthright man in defence of an opinion one could ever find, even if that opinion was pig-headed and wrong, as it often was. Perhaps he is getting old. As am I, indeed. Our day is nearly done, I think; it is the time for you young men now, Matthew Quinton.’
I did not tell Marlborough the true cause of the prince’s retreat.
* * *
The council came to a conclusion, and after we had been issued with copies of his new fighting instructions, the duke dismissed us. Prince Rupert left the cabin at once, evidently in a vile humour. I spoke briefly with Will Berkeley and we tentatively arranged dinner aboard his Swiftsure with Beau Harris, newly come in from his scouting mission upon the coast of Holland. As we were on the point of leaving the cabin the duke said, ‘Oh, Captain Quinton. I would have you inform me of the condition of the Merhonour and her crew, if you please.’
I excused myself from Will, and turned once more to face the heir to the throne. We were now alone in that cabin, which suddenly seemed a more claustrophobic place. I have observed that princes have a peculiar way of filling any space that they occupy; that is, unless they belong to the present House of Guelph, alias Wettin, alias Hanover, in which case they seem to fill less space than a fly in a cathedral.
York bade me sit, and I occupied the Duke of Monmouth’s old place, directly across the table from him. ‘So, Matthew,’ he said, ‘I understand my brother is still displeased with you.’
This was not what I had expected, and I felt myself flush. ‘Y – your Royal Highness…’
The duke’s upper lip bent slightly; I had known him long enough to understand that this was the closest James Stuart ever came to a smile. ‘It is not a matter of concern to me, Captain. His Majesty’s affairs are his own. All of his affairs, if you understand me.’ And that, in turn, was the closest that James Stuart came to a joke. ‘Whereas you and I, Matthew Quinton, have more pressing concerns – above all, this business of the treachery suspected among the captains of this fleet.’
‘Yes, Your Royal Highness. As you say.’
‘Do you believe it?’ The question was abrupt, but he did not permit me the time to answer. ‘I do not believe it. Lawson, Sansum, Myngs, all the rest of them – I know these men, Quinton. I have commissioned them, I have talked with them. Yes, they were infected with the contagion of the late times, but I am confident that makes them less likely to be infected with it now.’ The duke fixed me with a firm stare. ‘However, My Lord of Arlington persuades me that a prudent man guards against all eventualities.’ York spoke the name of Arlington with evident distaste. ‘He and his agents ashore are making every effort to uncover a plot, if one truly exists. He also tells me that I should make more of the cavalier captains here in the fleet, the likes of Marlborough, Holmes and Allin, privy to this intelligence, for even if my Royal Charles and your ancient Merhonour stand together, what hope will we have against twenty revolted captains and all of Obdam’s fleet? But I will not do so, Matthew. Now, why is that, do you think?’
I was unaccustomed to having princes ask me to explain their thinking back to them, and stammered in pursuit of the right words. ‘W – why, Highness, it may be – that is, it could be the case that making more men privy to the secret would make it more likely to be revealed. And – and let us say that the intelligence of this plot proves groundless. Might not needlessly sowing suspicion among our captains weaken their resolve to fight? If they are half-expecting treachery in the ships around them, might they not fight the Dutch less wholeheartedly? Thus we might be defeated by the very existence of the rumour, rather than by any truth in it.’
James Stuart looked at me curiously. ‘Bravo, Matthew Quinton!’ he exclaimed. ‘Men who can comprehend the thoughts of princes so perceptively ought to become ministers to them. Perhaps one day you will be a new Wolsey or Clarendon. Not, I trust, a new Arlington.’ There was no love lost between the Duke and the Secretary, essentially because James knew full well that Arlington’s dearest ambition was to bring down his father-in-law. Although I dared not state it, I also suspected that this might have had not a little to do with the Duke’s dismissal of the notion of a conspiracy among the captains; if that notion originated with Arlington, James would be instinctively disinclined to accept it.
I mumbled some gratitude for the royal praise, but James was dismissive. ‘This is our secret, Matthew Quinton. You and I, together with those few whom I trust aboard this ship.’ The duke stood, thereby compelling me to do the same, and walked to the stern windows of the Royal Charles, looking out over his fleet. ‘It is a sad truth that we live in times when Englishmen do not trust other Englishmen. Let us pray that once the cannon come to roar, we shall all find that trust again.’
Good people draw near,
If a ballad you’ll hear,
Which will teach you the right way of thriving.
Ne’er trouble your heads
With your books or your beads
Now the world’s rul’d by cheating and swiving.
~ Anonymous poem, c.1660s, from a manuscript at the Bodleian Library, Oxford
Barkstead Parva was a substantial stone house with lofty brick chimneys, pleasantly situated in one of the comparatively rare fertile valleys of Surrey, that miserable desert of a county. A rough heath rose behind it, but the house and its trim little garden would have had ample sun in summer. A pleasant spot; but one that was about to be made most unpleasant indeed.
The steward of Barkstead Parva, a stunted, unsmiling old retainer, announced Sir Venner and Lady Garvey, and admitted into the hallway a small, round man in an ill-fitting periwig and his much younger wife. Much, much younger, as Deodatus Anderson must have observed at once. And pleasantly pert, with clean brown hair arranged in immaculate ringlets. And elegantly attired in a grey riding-coat with petticoats visible beneath. And, surprisingly, Dutch.
It was fortunate indeed that, as both Phineas Musk and Lord Percival had suspected, Anderson knew the name and, more pertinently, the reputation of Sir Venner Garvey, good-brother to both the Earl of Ravensden and Captain Quinton, sometime councillor to the late Lord Protector, Member of Parliament and one of the most considerable and active men within that illustrious institution; fortunate, too, that Anderson had never actually seen or met the gentleman in question.
‘Sir Venner,’ said Anderson, a bent, decaying man in his sixties. ‘My Lady Garvey. May I present my wife?’ A fat woman who might have been beautiful for a few y
ears to either side of 1630 curtsied clumsily. Anderson gestured them through to his parlour, a decent, plain room overlooking the wilderness that is Surrey. ‘We are most honoured by your presence in this, our humble dwelling. Most honoured and, if I may say, intrigued at the cause of it?’
Rather relishing the part of Venner Garvey, whom he detested, Musk looked around the substantial modern manor, doubtless erected in place of some perfectly good old English farmhouse that had been torn down to make way, and decided that humble was certainly not the word he would apply to it. (His text, which I have again abridged somewhat, here digresses into a lengthy tirade against such excessive show.) As he sat upon a markedly uncomfortable chair, he also wondered once more at the means by which Anderson had come to be able to fund such a display of humility.
‘I will be direct, sir,’ said Musk, affecting a Yorkshire accent in imitation of Sir Venner’s. (His account suggests that his impersonation was impeccable; I, who often heard it, conceive that it must have been unutterably dreadful.) ‘We seek to acquire a property in this vicinity, for those occasions when sessions of Parliament or other business bring me south. Lady Garvey finds that the air of the city does not agree with her, you see.’ Keeping up her impersonation of my sister Elizabeth, Cornelia smiled wanly. ‘Your name was recommended to me by – well, let us say a mutual friend. He intimated that you would be the man to recommend suitable properties, even if you were not prepared to part with this most delightful seat of yours.’
Anderson took the bait. ‘Quite so, Sir Venner.’ He looked a trifle embarrassed. ‘If it is not an indelicate question, sir, might I ask what price you had in mind for the property you might wish to purchase?’
At that moment, Cornelia leaned over and whispered in Musk’s ear. ‘Ah. Yes, my dear. Of course. Mister Anderson, might it be possible for my wife to lie down for a brief time? The journey has tired her, and –’
‘My monthly pains are especially troublesome,’ said Cornelia, bluntly; such coarseness would have been unthinkable in an Englishwoman, of course, but the Dutch were curious creatures and all kinds of strange behaviour could be expected of them. Musk exchanged a glance of fellow-feeling with Anderson, whose wife rose at once and fussed concernedly over Cornelia, leading her off to the stairs in the corner of the room.
‘Lady Garvey will benefit from the rest,’ said Musk, ‘so there will be no reason for you to remain with her, Mistress. In fact, it is important to me that I discuss certain matters jointly with yourself and your husband.’
Both Anderson and his wife looked at him perplexedly, but neither raised an objection; Sir Venner Garvey was known to be one of the most eminent members of Parliament, a man with powerful connections both at court and in the City, and if he wished to speak to the Andersons together, who were they to quibble? As his wife led Cornelia upstairs, Anderson remembered his duties as a host and summoned his steward to fetch some refreshment for his illustrious guest. He apologised to Musk for the fact that the house was understaffed, the cook, the maid and the parlour-boy having gone into Godalming to buy provisions at market; but Musk already knew that. Indeed, the timing of his arrival at Anderson’s door had been determined by it.
The steward brought out some cold salted meats on platters, along with a choice of wine, Madeira and thé, the fashionable new drink much favoured by the queen. Musk contemplated the offering and requested some lamb and Madeira. ‘You live well, Anderson. Serving the Rump as a commissioner of victualling was lucrative, I take it?’
Anderson’s eyes narrowed, and he became more guarded. In some quarters, asking a man what he had done before the king’s happy and blessed Restoration was akin to demanding that he enumerate aloud his crimes and his lusts in church upon a Sunday. ‘I have been blessed in the offices that I have held,’ he said cautiously.
Mistress Anderson returned just then, and must have detected the discomfort in her husband. She sat beside him, and looked upon Musk with a new hostility. ‘Ah, indeed. And you, Mistress Anderson – you, too, were blessed in the offices that you held, I think.’
‘I – I do not follow you, Sir Venner –’ she blustered.
‘That was the thing about our rulers in the late times, was it not? Puritans, the godly … call them what you will, they prided themselves on searching out sin in others and castigating immorality in all its forms.’ Musk took a sip of Madeira. ‘But we know the truth, the three of us here in this room. We know that it was all a sham, nothing but foul hypocrisy and cant.’ Mistress Anderson was growing ever more agitated, her eyes darting this way and that. ‘We know how ungodly those so-godly great men of the Commonwealth could be, once they locked their bedroom doors behind them. And you know it best of all, Mistress Anderson.’
She was flushed now, and sweating. Her husband gripped her hand. ‘Great God, sir!’ he protested. ‘What is that you want?’
‘You could provide for every taste, I’m told. You could tell which major-general preferred boys, which councillor of state had a fondness for whips – for you could satisfy every taste, could you not, Good-wife Anderson? Or as you were known at the Protector’s court, the procuress-general?’
Anderson stood, his face contorted in rage. ‘You scoundrel, Garvey! You filth –’
Musk reached casually within his tunic-coat, produced a loaded and primed flintlock pistol, and levelled it at Deodatus Anderson. ‘Ah, well, you see, Anderson, I doubt very much whether Sir Venner Garvey would interest himself in your affairs. And it is time that I desisted from taking his name in vain.’
Anderson looked upon the pistol in horror, and sank slowly back into his chair. ‘Who are you?’ he hissed.
‘A man who does interest himself in your affairs, master and goodwife. On behalf of others who have even more interest in them.’ Calmly, Musk nibbled a piece of lamb. The faux Yorkshire accent was gone now, supplanted by his native London speech. ‘You see, Mistress, it came to our attention that you were renowned for your meticulous record-keeping. It’s said you kept entire ledgers – names, dates, prices, proclivities, all of it. And the identities of the whores and catamites that you provided. How useful that information might be! Why, who knows which of your clients are now respectable bulwarks of His Majesty’s realm…’
A slight noise made Musk, Anderson and his wife all turn slightly toward the door from the kitchen. The steward stood there, and for a fleeting moment Anderson smiled, presumably believing the tables to be turned. The moment lasted only as long as it took him to register the presence of Cornelia Quinton behind the steward. Like Musk, she held a pistol in her right hand. Her left held two large leather-bound volumes.
‘Well done, Mistress,’ said Musk. ‘You had no difficulty finding the object of our interest?’
‘The opposite,’ said Cornelia happily. She wielded a pistol as comfortably as any dragoon. ‘It was in the room next to that in which I was left to rest. They did not even think to lock them away – simply had them upon a shelf! God in hemel, any common thief could have walked in and wandered off with them. And thanks to the thoroughness of the goodwife, there, each volume is indexed.’
‘Well, then,’ said Musk, getting to his feet, ‘no need to detain this household any longer.’
Cornelia moved to his side; her pistol, like Musk’s, continued to point menacingly at the Andersons and their steward.
‘You will not escape, sir!’ Anderson cried defiantly. ‘We have friends – aye, powerful friends!’
‘Indeed,’ said Musk as he and Cornelia backed toward the door. ‘Then ask your so-powerful friends if they have ever heard the name of Lord Percival. Ask them if it is advisable to pursue the servants who do his bidding. Advisable for the continuing good health of any man and woman. And thus, Master and Mistress Anderson, we bid you good day.’
* * *
Ik gilde van het lichen … writes my dear wife in her deposition, lying upon my desk alongside Musk’s. But in English, then, and combining the two accounts before me in the manner of a historian weighin
g his sources – a Bishop Burnet, say, the greatest historian of recent times (in his own mind, at any rate), although hopefully without that mewling Scots jolthead’s propensity brazenly to invent his evidence:
Cornelia shrieked with laughter as she and Musk urged their horses into a full gallop along the lane toward Chiddingfold. She made no concession to ladylike dignity, and sat astride her steed like a man.
‘Oh, Musk!’ she cried. ‘The thrill of it! I think I should become a highwaywoman, like old Kat Ferrers! If only my dear Matthew could see me – could have seen me back there!’
