by L. C. Tyler
‘Yes, cousin,’ I reply. I dare not say more. Aminta is spinning such a delicate, sparkling web of deceit that any clumsy thing I say may break it in a moment.
‘When Sir Michael’s letter arrived at our lodgings,’ Aminta continues, ‘I knew that it would not be safe for me to accept the invitation to talk to him and his companions, but I had to find out whether the Sealed Knot suspected anything. I therefore sent John to meet them. They were, of course, surprised. They knew enough to be expecting a lady, not a gentleman … and certainly not a lawyer.’
Ripley nods. ‘I admit we were expecting a lady – it was a woman’s voice that our contact thought he overheard. We assumed that it might be the daughter of Sir Felix Clifford, since his name was mentioned several times. It was not surprising that we formed the view that his son had been sent instead of his daughter – that our intelligence was wrong in that one small respect.’
‘Indeed,’ says Aminta. ‘You formed that view. John realised that you were in error but he certainly could not tell you of my true mission, so he made up a story – a slightly far-fetched one – about murdering Cromwell. It was the best he could do at the time. But you believed him and did not trouble me further. I was free to go about my business.’
Ripley is frowning, trying to tie in Aminta’s story to the story that I have told him. They are, to be fair, similar in some respects. Fortunately, before he can spot any inconsistencies the King gives a laugh.
‘In short, Sir Michael, the lady ran rings round you,’ he says.
I think that this royal intervention has not made Ripley like me any more than he did before. Aminta, however, nods in acknowledgment of the truth of what the King has said.
‘I had put Mr Grey into a very difficult position,’ she says. ‘Having deceived Sir Michael, for the best possible reasons, he had to persist in playing his part as an assassin while continuing to help me with my investigations. In no wise could he explain the truth. And I saw a further use for him. On my instructions, he used his old contacts in Mr Thurloe’s office to gain access to Thurloe’s own network of spies and to ask questions about Sir Richard there. He discovered that Thurloe knew Sir Richard well and that Thurloe was protecting him. I questioned Sir Richard myself, as you know, and his answers were most unsatisfactory. Thurloe refers to Sir Richard as his “masterpiece of corruption”, by the way. He is very proud of having turned him.’
‘Nevertheless,’ says Hyde, ‘the King believes him to be blameless. The King’s view is that Sir Richard has been incriminated by a plot of Thurloe’s. We have all been deliberately misled, including you. The King’s word on this is final.’
‘With respect, Your Majesty …’ Aminta begins, but the King waves a hand wearily.
‘I am grateful to you for your respect,’ says the King, ‘but that matter is concluded.’
Ripley fumes silently. It would seem, however, that Aminta has not finished with His Majesty.
‘I cannot agree, sir. Mr Grey spoke to Thurloe himself. Moreover, when I met with Sir Richard, he was shifty and evasive. Though his lecherous gaze took in most of me, he would not look me in the eye. He is hiding something.’
The King smiles. ‘As a woman you know this? You know when a man is hiding something from you?’
‘Yes,’ she says.
‘Even if your King assures you that he is not?’
Aminta narrows her eyes. I am aware that she is making overtures to Cromwell, but she would, even so, do well not to pick a fight with the King quite so publicly in his own court. Before she can speak, however, Daniel O’Neill intervenes.
‘Your Majesty’s view is that Willys is innocent,’ he says. ‘The view of the rest of us, including my Lady Pole, is that he is guilty. The rest of us, including my Lady Pole, bow to Your Majesty’s superior judgement as a matter of course. However, I would remind you that the issue before us is what to do with Mr Grey. You have heard that he has been of great service to Your Majesty. I have not heard anyone dispute it. The question is whether Grey can be trusted to keep his silence on the other great matter that Lady Pole was asked to report on – that is to say, whether the Protector Cromwell can be removed in a timely manner.’
‘If we release Grey he could still report back to Thurloe,’ says Ripley. ‘That he has helped Lady Pole does not mean that he is on our side. And while in Brussels he has discovered too much about our plans.’
He is wrong in one sense – I am not certain that I have discovered anything new. On the other hand, he is quite right in another sense. Thurloe will undoubtedly try to get out of me anything he can.
‘He already knows of the plan,’ says Aminta. ‘He has done so for some time. I had, of necessity, to tell him everything while I was in London. He knew and yet revealed nothing to Thurloe.’
Hyde is no fool. He can see the flaw in this as well as I can. ‘Then why did Mr Grey not say that earlier?’
‘Because,’ says Aminta, ‘he did not wish to reveal how much I had told him. He thought that he might place me at risk if he did so. He thought you would not approve my actions. But I tell you now, with due apologies if I exceeded my commission.’
She curtseys in a way that I can only describe as nicely judged. It suggests obedience and avoids any need to look the King in the eye.
‘You certainly took a great risk, madam,’ says Hyde.
Aminta straightens up. She’s not curtseying to Hyde. ‘Not at all, Sir Edward. You forget that I have known John all my life. In the village, when we were young, he was known for his honesty. He was regarded as honest almost to the point of simplicity.’
‘Was I?’ I say. Her father’s steward knew me mainly for stealing apples from the orchard.
‘You know you were, dear cousin. The village idiot was quite worried for his position. I am prepared to stand surety for my cousin. I give you my word that he will tell nobody.’
‘And you are saying that we should release him and let him return to England?’ asks Hyde.
‘Yes,’ says Aminta.
‘No,’ says Ripley.
‘Perhaps,’ says O’Neill, ‘it would after all be better to keep him here. Lady Pole vouches for him. He could remain under house arrest with the Poles until such time as the information he has would be valueless.’
‘Are you willing to do that, Lady Pole?’ asks the King.
‘My family has always served you in every way possible,’ says Aminta. She curtseys again, very prettily.
‘I still say that letting Grey live is too great a risk,’ says Ripley. ‘And as for Willys …’
The King pauses for a moment but Fairfax, impatient at the dullness of the proceedings or perhaps simply desirous of being elsewhere, jumps down from his lap and heads for the door, tail wagging. This decides the matter.
‘Grey shall remain with Lady Pole,’ says the King. ‘He must remain within the city walls of Brussels. As long as he does so, he is under her protection and mine. I wish to hear nothing further against Sir Richard.’ He rises and stretches. ‘Good night, Mr Grey. I am pleased that Sir Michael will not be put to the trouble of shooting you.’
The door opens and closes. On the far side there comes a single excited bark and we all listen to the sound of receding footsteps.
Eventually Ripley breaks the silence. ‘If his dog hadn’t been about to shit in his lap, he might have had time to listen to what I had to say.’
‘There’s always somebody in his lap,’ says O’Neill.
‘You are fools, all of you,’ says Ripley. ‘I for one will not trust Willys again. And as for you, Grey, don’t think that you can avoid me for ever.’
‘I don’t think that,’ I say.
As we make our way through the moonlit streets, I say to Aminta: ‘So, who is Cromwell’s assassin?’
‘I would hardly tell you that, my dear cousin.’
‘But you told everyone that I knew.’
‘But you don’t, do you?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘And that is for the b
est,’ says Aminta.
‘It is not for the best that Cromwell dies,’ I say.
‘True. But it may not happen,’ she says. ‘Indeed, after my visit to London, I think it won’t.’
We walk on in silence for some way, then I say: ‘Are we about to walk to Paris, if that is where you and your father now live?’
‘For goodness sake,’ she replies. ‘I have just saved your life and you quibble about one small lie?’
‘Had you said you came from Brussels, I might have worked it all out a bit sooner.’
‘Which is why I told you that we were in Paris.’
‘So your visit to London, assassinations apart, was only to investigate Willys? You had no real intention of compounding for Roger’s ancestral lands?’
‘On the contrary. In that respect I may have deceived Sir Edward just a little. I tried to reclaim them on that visit and will continue to try to reclaim them. That is why, like you, I should prefer Cromwell to live until things are a little more settled. If the King returns, he may choose to restore some property confiscated from his supporters, but he will need to placate his former opponents as well. And he will want to upset as few people as possible. Possession will still be nine-tenths of the law. So Roger and I have to continue to press Cromwell for the return of our lands now. And Cromwell must stay alive long enough to make his reply. It is important that nobody assassinates him in the meantime. I have that in hand.’
‘Where is Roger?’ I ask. I am not looking forward to sharing a house with him as well as with Aminta and her father.
‘He has gone to England. He thinks that Fairfax, though a distant connection, may be of assistance. He will take my own representations further.’
‘Is that not dangerous?’
‘There is some risk of arrest still, but it must be done.’
‘You would really change sides and desert the King?’ I say.
Aminta stops suddenly. She looks both ways down the deserted street before she hisses back: ‘You raised no objection when we were in England. Buckingham has gone over to Cromwell. Why not us? Fairfax is as likely as anyone to succeed as the next Lord Protector. Cromwell just needs to live a little longer so that Fairfax is readmitted to the inner circle. And why should you disapprove? Unless …’
‘Unless what?’ I ask.
‘You now call him “the King”, not “Charles Stuart” or “the Tyrant’s son” or “the Pretender” or “the titular King of the Scots”. And you did not sneer at all. Next you will be calling him “His Gracious Majesty”. Your Republican principles are being eaten away, John.’
‘A slip of the tongue,’ I say. ‘I am still loyal to His Highness the Lord Protector.’
‘Whom you now seem to refer to simply as “Cromwell”.’
‘Another slip of the tongue.’
‘You have not been charmed and won over by His Majesty?’
‘No,’ I say.
‘The King does that.’
I say nothing and remind myself that all kingship is tyranny and the only noble form of government is a republic.
‘I wish Roger well in his quest,’ I say. ‘I hope you recover your estates. Indeed, I have already asked Thurloe to support your request to Cromwell.’
‘You mean my request to His Highness the Lord Protector?’
‘I mean your request to His Highness the Lord Protector.’
She pulls me to her and gives me a kiss on the cheek. For a moment I feel the warmth of her body against mine. The happy thought occurs to me that Roger Pole may already be arrested and imprisoned by now. After all, my luck has held so far. Who knows what undeserved good fortune the future will bring?
Sir Felix Clifford
‘You are most welcome, John,’ says Sir Felix, ‘to our humble dwelling.’
I am sitting at Sir Felix’s table, eating Sir Felix’s beef, obtained on credit from some over-trusting Flemish butcher.
‘Thank you, Sir Felix,’ I say.
‘It is my pleasure. We do not dine thus every day. We are impoverished Cavaliers, as you know. Usually a stew of beans and roots is all we have. Or perhaps a rabbit, obtained by stealth in one of the woods. Or a trout or two, netted by night – one does not ask from which stream.’ He belches happily.
‘Thank you,’ I say again.
‘Rumours of my visit to England have persuaded the tradesmen to be patient with us for a little longer,’ says Aminta. ‘This town is full of rumours, sometimes to our advantage. And one rumour is that the King will be restored soon and we shall all have money. I fear it may be untrue, but it is enough to put a smile on the faces of many Brussels tradesmen. When the Royalists’ estates are restored, the fountains of Flanders will flow with wine.’
‘Only if the Royalists waste their gold on paying their debts here,’ says Sir Felix. ‘Which few will do.’ He cuts himself another slice of beef and examines it for a moment on the end of his fork. ‘Do you know, Aminta, I think this may be horse that they have sold you. I certainly would not pay for it.’
‘And you certainly will not pay for it. I obtained it on Roger’s credit. Yours was used up some time ago, my dear father. If we were to live on what you could provide, we would lack even the beans and roots that you speak of so fondly.’
Sir Felix nods amiably, his mouth full of horse.
‘It is excellent anyway,’ I say as I chew.
‘And Ripley thought that you were Aminta’s brother?’ he asks. ‘Ha!’
‘Yes. He knew you, of course. He thought that I resembled you in some way. It saved my life.’
Sir Felix looks at me, tries to swallow a piece of horse and then almost chokes. Aminta slaps him on the back and offers him beer (Roger’s credit does not run to wine, it would seem).
‘I am, of course, nothing like Marius,’ I say, as Sir Felix coughs and splutters. ‘Even if Ripley did not know that he had sadly died during the war, I am surprised at his error. How could I be him?’
Aminta is looking at me critically. ‘There is perhaps a slight resemblance,’ she says. ‘I did not remark it at the time, when we all played together as children, but you were younger than Marius. But now … yes, I can see Marius in you.’
‘A little,’ says Sir Felix, having recovered his voice. ‘But no more than that. You are, after all, both good-looking young men, eh, Aminta? As, of course, is your husband, I should add. Let us hope he has avoided capture in London.’
Aminta and I exchange glances. Whatever she is thinking about any of that, she is saying nothing more.
‘You too took a risk in travelling to England for His Majesty,’ I say to change the subject.
Aminta laughs. ‘Not merely King but now His Majesty?’
I wonder whether to correct myself, but decide not to. He is the same Charles Stuart whatever I call him.
‘I think,’ says Sir Felix, prodding a fork in my direction, ‘that we are sheltering a dangerous Royalist. We must be careful that Mr Thurloe does not find out.’
As I am leaving Sir Felix’s modest house, I realise that I am being watched from the other side of the street. It is Underhill. I ignore him and set off towards the market. He follows me.
‘Good morning, Mr Grey,’ he pants, as he catches me up. ‘Perhaps we could have a quiet word? Maybe in the square just ahead of us? I think that will be private enough for us. Just follow me a little way off. We do not know who may be watching us and I think we should be discreet.’
Whatever I feel about Underhill, I do not fear him. For all his claims to be an assassin, and for all his boasts of having served his Lord Lambert as Corporal of Horse, I doubt that he has much taste for cold steel in a dark alleyway. Still, I have no intention of obliging him in any way.
‘You can say whatever you have to say here,’ I tell him.
He looks around at the citizens of Brussels as they come and go. Nobody shows any great interest in two Englishmen conversing in the street. They have learned to despise and largely ignore the threadbare Cavaliers who have made their
home here. Underhill shrugs.
‘I am pleased that you are still with us, Mr Grey,’ he says. ‘You have no hard feelings, I trust, any more than I have hard feelings because you had me pursued and arrested by Mr Thurloe.’
‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ I say.
‘That is a pity, because I have a proposal to put to you that may be to our mutual advantage.’
‘What’s that?’
Underhill looks around to see if any of our countrymen might overhear him. He lowers his voice to a whisper.
‘I am suggesting that in future we should work together.’
‘How?’
‘I think that the King may soon be restored,’ says Underhill.
‘I doubt it,’ I say. ‘So do the many others who are returning to England.’
‘Maybe they don’t know as much as I do, then. I repeat, when the King is restored, I’d like a job working for O’Neill – he’s likely to be the man running the secret service.’
‘I can’t help you,’ I say.
‘O’Neill likes you,’ says Underhill. ‘He’ll listen to you. Strangely, he doesn’t like me much at all. You were at the university, weren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Cambridge.’
‘And your people own land?’
‘They did, once. I suppose we do own land again, now my mother has remarried.’
‘A lot of land?’
‘Most of the village.’
‘Exactly. I was never at a university, Mr Grey, and my father could never lay claim to a square yard of land until he was buried in it. O’Neill looks down his nose at me. I could walk straight past Hyde ten times a day and he’d never notice I was there.’
‘He’d never notice me either.’
‘But he’d not notice you in a different way. He’d not notice you as a gentleman.’
‘As a practising lawyer, I am simply a man of business.’
‘That’s rubbish. You’re still one of them. You’re still gentry.’
‘And what are you?’
‘I’m one of the people.’
‘And you think I can get you a job with O’Neill?’
‘Yes, I do.’
