by Karen Brooks
Or was it the Quakers they were seeking? For the past few weeks Bianca and the Friends had been meeting every Sunday evening in the bookshop, entering through the rear gate so it appeared as if they were going to church. They sat quietly around the counter, offering their mostly silent prayers and communion, leaving one at a time so as not to attract attention. Not even Filip and the boys knew of their presence. Could they have been seen?
‘Can you show this gentleman to me?’ she asked the boys.
They nodded eagerly.
‘Not in an obvious way, mind. We must make it look casual. Return to your duties as I will mine. Shortly, I want you to come to the bar, Adam, and whisper something in my ear. We will both go to the table near the east window and from there you can show me this man you speak of.’
The boys nodded again.
Fifteen minutes later, having shared this news with Matthew, causing his brow to furrow, Adam approached her. Rising, both Rosamund and Matthew made their way to the table near the easternmost window, gently pushing past the patrons who were keen to engage them in conversation. While Matthew distracted the men, Rosamund sidled close to the window with Adam, a tray balanced against his hip, by her side.
It was a moment before he casually rubbed his nose, his finger pointing towards a man of medium height. Dressed in the ordinary clothes of a worker, he leaned against the old stationer’s store directly opposite. Now a lacemaker’s, it wasn’t a good spot for surveillance for a man; it was evident he had no interest in the goods in the shop.
Adam returned to service while Rosamund remained and watched for a few minutes. Matthew finally broke away from the men and joined her. She simply smiled, nodded down at the street and left him, her heart thumping, her former confidence flowing into her boots with every step. If that man was a spy then they were in trouble.
She caught Filip’s concerned look and donned a smile. Working around her, the drawers attended to the patrons as if nothing was amiss.
Dear God, she thought, thinking of what she asked Adam, Kit and Hugh to do, the risks they took on her behalf.
They could all be in trouble.
The months flew past and as the premises continued to be watched they took extra precautions. Matthew ceased to print his anonymous pieces, sticking to authorised material only. The Quakers terminated their meetings. They were neither raided nor arrested.
Still the surveillance continued.
From Matthew, Rosamund learned there were two men watching them: Peter Crabb and Samuel Wilcox, who took it in turns to observe the building throughout the day. The two had done work for Sir Edward Nichols, King Charles’s Secretary of State, but had transferred their services to Sir Henry Bennet.
Sir Henry… His Majesty’s spymaster. And Matthew’s occasional employer. Suddenly Sir Henry’s interest in Rosamund, his desire to engage her in conversation every time he entered the chocolate house, took on a sinister cast. Rosamund always ensured she had a ready smile and a store of safe conversations with which to regale him. She began to wonder if she’d ever inadvertently mentioned anything to him from Matthew’s illegal pamphlets. Praying she hadn’t been so foolish, she worked hard so as not to appear wary and made sure she expressed appreciation for his continued patronage.
Aware Matthew watched her interactions with Sir Henry, she also noted how the man followed Matthew down to the bookshop on a number of occasions. When she asked Matthew if Sir Henry questioned him about his writings, he reassured her their conversations were safe. She was safe. Sir Henry had their interests as well as those of the King at heart. Crabb and Wilcox, while Sir Henry’s men, oft acted of their own volition but as far as Sir Henry knew, they were not investigating Matthew or the chocolate house.
Matthew admitted it was also possible someone else was paying the two watchers — they were hands for hire, after all. For the moment, whoever that might be, and for what purpose, remained a mystery. Matthew assured her he would get to the bottom of it. She wondered who had hired the men and what their motivation might be, tormenting herself with terrible possibilities.
Spring arrived, bringing with it another bout of hot, stormy weather. Hail as big as the tennis balls the King loved striking rained upon the capital, breaking windows, damaging barrows and carts and even killing a couple of unfortunate souls. Lightning split the sky in jagged spears and flashes at once haunting and ethereal. Reading them as portents of divine displeasure, prognosticators revelled in making dire predictions almost as much as preachers in the pulpit.
The London Gazette and the trade publications that contained information about shipping, horses and forthcoming auctions were also filled with news from foreign shores, much of it about the war preparations the Dutch and French were making.
Regardless of the never-ending war, disillusionment with the King was so rife, it was rumoured even those closest to him were growing tired of his selfish ways. Matthew learned that John Wilmot, the Earl of Rochester, was working on a satire about him.
‘This is what he’s penned thus far,’ said Matthew one quiet evening after closing. ‘Make sure no-one else reads this.’
Rosamund scanned the few lines, swallowing hard to still her laughter, more than little shocked at the tone. ‘How did you manage to get this?’ she asked.
Matthew’s eyes sparkled. ‘I have my ways.’
‘If the King ever sees this —’ She stopped.
‘Aye, Wilmot will be for the Tower. It’s not intended for His Majesty’s eyes.’ Matthew folded it carefully. ‘God knows what else he’ll compose.’
Rosamund nodded. ‘The King gives him so much material. To think, that’s how his own courtiers regard him.’
‘Not all,’ said Matthew. ‘Not those who find great advantage in encouraging His Majesty’s vices.’ He sighed. ‘What’s of greatest concern is the common folk are far more likely to put angry words into foolish actions. When I first started writing about the court’s foibles, I didn’t understand the resentment bubbling below the surface. It’s just as well I’m forced to stop at present.’ He gazed towards the windows. ‘We must keep our ears and eyes open, Rosamund — and not just for spies. The last thing we need with the Hollanders and French breathing down our necks is another civil war.’
Matthew was right. But if this was what a courtier was prepared to write — one of the King’s own, a noble — it was hardly surprising plots to overthrow the monarch abounded.
Nor was it surprising that one of the greatest of these was hatched at the Phoenix.
FORTY-FIVE
In which a plot thickens
It was late April before the sea-battles that were supposed to end the Anglo–Dutch War were waged. The chocolate house was relatively quiet, the day was warm and many had taken to the river to enjoy the spring sunshine. The fighting was far away, akin to a bedtime story. As she cleaned one of the booths, Rosamund took the opportunity to rest awhile, flicking through the London Gazette, wondering if she could persuade Bianca and Matthew to accompany her to the latest production at the King’s Theatre, The Duchess of Malfi. According to the bill, it was a bloody play of revenge and murder. While she read, a group of men arrived and settled themselves in the booth next to her. They called over the drawers and placed an order, then began to whisper in urgent voices.
At first, Rosamund didn’t pay them heed. Men were always gossiping like fish wives, persuading themselves that their discussions of Frances Stewart’s beauty, or whether or not the King had fathered Lady Castlemaine’s latest brat, or which lord was fucking which courtier’s wife, was worthy of consideration merely because it came from a man’s mouth, whereas if a female pondered the same subjects she would be dismissed as a mindless blatherer. Rosamund put down the bill and scanned the contents of a new pamphlet. It was yet another piece on what the number 1666 signified and how they were all doomed. Then she heard something that made her skin goose and her heart seize.
‘It’s not that difficult,’ said a low, hoarse voice. ‘It may be a fortress
, but if you take it from the water, cross the bleedin’ moat, no-one will know. I’m telling ye, the walls aren’t defended.’
Rosamund sat very still. The voices were unfamiliar.
‘He speaks true. And after we enter the Tower with weapons aplenty —’ the accent was northern, the harsh words had a pleasing burr, ‘we seek out Governor Robinson and General Browne and put an end to them once and for all.’
There was heavy silence.
‘And you say the others are ready?’ asked a recognisable voice finally.
‘I have it on good authority they merely await our word. Once given, there’ll be uprisings all over the country — Scotland especially. They’re as sick of this Stuart bastard, his roaming cock and spendthrift ways, as the rest of us.’
There were more names mentioned, and Rosamund did her best to consign them to her memory. A date was given. Her blood froze.
She needed to move, to see who was talking and try to ascertain if this was something to be taken seriously and not merely a fantasy borne of discontent, but she had to do it without giving away that she’d been eavesdropping. At that moment Hugh approached the men with a laden tray, and she pleaded with him with her eyes not to acknowledge her.
Confused by the faces she was pulling, he shrugged and served the men who ceased to talk the moment he appeared.
Taking advantage of the interruption, she slid out of her booth and went to the bar, approaching it from the kitchen as if that was where she had been all along. It was easy to see the men. She knew one quite well — the familiar voice belonged to John Rathbone. According to Mr Nick, he’d been a colonel in the old Parliamentary army. Ever since the plague, he’d been a regular who kept to himself, preferring to take his pipe and news sheet and sit at the end of a table. This time, there were two others with him. She couldn’t see the man sitting opposite, but the one next to him was of Sir Everard’s vintage and possessed of a very untidy periwig and dirty clothes, as if he’d ridden a fair distance.
This was information she couldn’t keep to herself, no matter how much she respected the privacy of her patrons and their right to converse about all manner of topics. This wasn’t merely dissent — it was treachery.
Furthermore, if she reported it, it might satisfy whoever sent men to watch them to call them off once and for all. Surely, if she or Matthew plotted to overthrow the government, they wouldn’t betray those attempting to do it.
Rosamund excused herself and asked Bianca to supervise the bar, then she immediately went downstairs to Matthew and told him everything.
Matthew agreed this could be just what they needed to deflect any unwanted attention. Bidding her mind the shop and to write down all the details she could recall, he went upstairs to investigate.
A few minutes later he returned, looking grim.
‘This information must be passed to Bennet and Williamson at once. I’m all for poking people’s conscience, for keeping the government accountable, but not violence. Not treason. It brings nothing but misery — to all.’
‘You know Mr Williamson well enough to reveal this to him?’
Matthew became distracted, straightening a stack of bills on the counter. ‘He helped establish the London Gazette, publishes my writing. He’s also given me… other work in the past.’
‘Other work? You mean, the work that took you to the Continent? Occupied you in the New World?’
He grinned. ‘I didn’t spend all that time away chasing my former wife’s lover. Bennet and Williamson gave me a second chance — the opportunity to prove my worth after the Blithman debacle. I wasn’t going to forfeit that. Bennet trusts me now. Listens to me.’
Which explained why Matthew believed him when he said they weren’t being watched by his command. Rosamund regarded him quizzically. ‘There’s so much about you I don’t know.’
‘I’m a real conundrum. The Sphinx of London.’ He winked as she laughed. ‘I pray you’ll have years to uncover all my secrets,’ he said, taking the list of names from her. ‘Just as I will yours.’
Suddenly shy, Rosamund was the first to look away. Her finger trailed across the counter. ‘You think it’s genuine then? These men pose a real threat?’
‘Anyone who discusses a coup and setting fire to the city on a day that’s dear to all Cromwellians, September the third — the anniversary of the Lord Protector’s death — must be taken very seriously,’ said Matthew.
He looked at what she’d written and let out a long whistle. ‘This goes far indeed. Thomas Flint. John Cole. My.’ He folded the paper carefully and placed it in a pocket. ‘Can I ask you now, my lady, to entrust this knowledge to my keeping? I will see to it the information gets to the right people. Hopefully, this will prove my — our — loyalty.’
Rosamund was glad to wash her hands of it. Men who were so disloyal they would plot a coup and set fire to the city — and dared to do so under her roof —should be severely punished. Rosamund returned upstairs and it took all her skills to pretend nothing was amiss and to treat the conspirators as she did all her customers — with a smile, a laugh and offers of more drinks.
It was only later that night as she related what she’d overheard to Bianca, that it occurred to her these men might lose their lives. The price for uttering the wrong words in the wrong place was very, very high. Furthermore, these men were known Parliamentarians. The King tolerated them about as much as he did those with dissenting faiths — as Bianca well knew.
Just as words could do so much good, they could also destroy and change lives in an instant. Did the men understand the power they held in their mouths? She feared they didn’t. It was why she respected Matthew so much: he knew both the good and the evil words could bring.
As if carried in on her thoughts, Matthew appeared at the door, ushered in by Ashe. Matthew thanked the housekeeper and waited until she left before speaking.
‘Well, Rosamund,’ he threw himself into a chair and accepted a glass of wine, ‘it looks like you may have uncovered a veritable nest of snakes.’
‘Are the men to be seized?’ she asked.
Matthew shook his head.
‘Not immediately. Bennet says they’ll be watched and followed. He intends to see how far this stretches, who else is involved. As yet, there is time.’
‘Until September the third. Unless they succeed, after which, London will be no more.’
‘Yes,’ laughed Matthew. ‘And the world as we know it will end. You’ve been reading too many almanacs, Rosamund.’
‘That’s what I told her,’ chuckled Bianca. ‘And listening to the prognosticators.’
Rosamund smiled good-naturedly at their teasing. ‘I believe a group of plotting men far more than I do those who foresee the end of the world, however it comes. Mind you, those who claim to see the future have been wrong so far. They said floods would destroy us, pestilence too — and neither did.’
‘What does that leave in their arsenal of predictions?’ asked Matthew, holding up his glass for Bianca to refill.
‘Fire.’ Rosamund grinned. ‘All that’s left is fire.’
FORTY-SIX
In which a baker burns pudding 2nd September, 1666
As it turned out, the only good to come of the plotters being uncovered — apart from a deadly plan being foiled — was that the surveillance of the Phoenix and the bookshop ceased. Either whoever had hired them was also seeking proof of the Rathbone Plot (as it came to be called), or, Rosamund thought, the men they’d sent learned to avoid detection. Whatever the reason, Rosamund’s days continued much as they had before, until one hot day in early September.
Standing in the yard at the chocolate house picking flowers, Rosamund paused and sniffed the air. ‘Can you smell that?’ she asked Grace. After church that morning, Rosamund and Bianca, along with Grace, had walked to Birchin Lane carrying a basket of food so they could share a meal with Filip, Mr Nick and the boys. It was also a convenient excuse to see Matthew, who was busy stocktaking in the bookshop. Looking for somet
hing to decorate the luncheon table, she and Grace had snuck downstairs.
Grace swept her hair off her face — the sultry wind took braids as a challenge and sought to untangle carefully styled plaits — tilted her little chin and inhaled. ‘Aye, my lady. I can. Strong like, too.’
Summer had struck the city with blazing vengeance. The rains had ceased to fall, the river receded until its muddy banks were nothing but cracked earth displaying the rotting carcasses of stranded fish and eels. Boats couldn’t pass the locks. Mighty thunderstorms continued to growl above the city and lightning punctuated the sky, all without the relief of rain. Though the heat and the hot, desiccated air had grown uncomfortably familiar, this was different.
Rosamund handed the last of the little bell-shaped flowers to Grace. ‘Take a few for your neckline and put the rest in water, will you? Tell Bianca I’ll be there shortly. I might go and have a word with Mr Lovelace. Thank you, Grace.’
Rosamund navigated the maze of corridors at the back of the bookshop and found Matthew staring out the front window, hands folded behind his back. Pausing to drink in the sight he presented in his Sunday best blue jacket and crisp white shirt, Rosamund noted how his hair shone where the sun struck it. Grateful to be out of the heat, she quickly tidied herself, then came around the counter to join him.
