Читать книгу A Crowning Mercy - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 15

6

Sir George Lazender, Toby’s father, was a worried man.

He had friends who thought him always worried, gnawing at problems when the meat was long gone from the bone, but, as August ended in 1643, Sir George had real reasons for concern.

He had hoped to forget his worries for a morning. He had taken a boat from the Privy Stairs and landed in the city. Now he was in the precincts of St Paul’s Cathedral indulging his passion for books, yet his heart was not in it.

‘Sir George!’ It was the bookseller, coming crabwise behind his stall. ‘A fine day, Sir George!’

Sir George, ever courteous, touched the brim of his hat in response to the bookseller’s greeting. ‘Mr Bird. You’re well, I hope?’

‘I am, sir, though trade is bad, indeed it is, Sir George. Very bad.’

Sir George picked a random book from the table. He could not face a long discussion of the new taxes which Parliament had imposed and for which, as a member of the House of Commons, he was partly to blame. Yet it would be discourteous to ignore the bookseller, so he waved at the cloudless sky. ‘The weather is on your side, Mr Bird.’

‘I thank God it’s not raining, Sir George.’ Bird had not even needed to bring out the canvas shelters for his tables. ‘Bad news from Bristol, Sir George.’

‘Yes.’ Sir George opened the book and stared, unseeing, at the pages. Even less than he wished to discuss trade did he wish to discuss the war. It was the war which was his chief worry.

‘I shall let you read, Sir George.’ Mr Bird, thankfully, had taken the hint. ‘That copy is a little foxed, Sir George, but still worth a crown, I think.’

‘Good! Good!’ Sir George said absent-mindedly. He found he was reading Harington’s translation of Orlando Furioso, a book he had owned for twenty years, yet by burying his nose in the poetry he might escape the greetings of his many friends and acquaintances who used the bookstalls at St Paul’s.

The King had taken Bristol and that, in a very strange way, worried Sir George. It worried him because it suggested that the Royalists might be gaining the upper hand in the Civil War, and if Sir George changed sides now, then there were many men who would say he did it out of fear, deserting Parliament in a cowardly attempt to join the winning side, and that was not true.

Sir George wanted to change sides, but his reasons had nothing to do with the fall of Bristol.

War had begun the previous year and Sir George, as a loyal Parliamentarian, had no doubts then. He had been offended, deeply so, by King Charles’s use of illegal taxation, and the offence had become personal when the King had forced loans out of his richer subjects. The loans, Sir George knew, would never be repaid and he was among the men who had been robbed by his monarch.

The argument between King and Parliament had drifted almost imperceptibly into war. Sir George continued to support Parliament for its cause was his cause; that the kingdom should be ruled by law and that no man, not even the King of England, was above that law. That doctrine pleased Sir George, made his support of the rebellion firm, yet now he knew that he was changing sides. He would support the King against Parliament.

He moved to one of the great buttresses of the medieval cathedral and leaned against the sun-warmed stone. It was not, he thought, that he had changed, it was the cause that had changed. He had entered the rebellion convinced that it was a political fight, a war to decide how the country should be governed, but in opening the gates of battle Parliament had released a plague of monsters. The monsters took religious shapes.

Sir George Lazender was a Protestant, stout in the defence of his faith, but he had little time for the Ranters, the Fifth Monarchy Men, the Anabaptists, the Familists, the Mortalists, or any of the other strange sects that had suddenly emerged to preach their own brand of revolutionary religion. Fanaticism had swamped London. Only two days before he had seen a stark naked woman parading in the Strand, preaching the Rantist sect, and the extraordinary thing was that people took such nonsense seriously! And with the religious nonsense, that might be harmless, came more insidious political demands.

Parliament claimed that it fought only against the King’s advisers. That, Sir George knew, was a nonsense, but it gave Parliament a shred of legality in its revolt. The aim of Parliament was to restore the King to his throne in Whitehall, a throne that was meticulously maintained for his return, and then to force him to rule England with the consent and help of his Parliament. There would, of course, be great changes. The bishops would have to go, and the archbishops, so that the Church of England would appear a more Protestant church and, though Sir George was not personally offended by bishops, he would sacrifice them willingly if it meant a king ruling a kingdom according to law and not whim. Yet Sir George no longer trusted that Parliament, if it defeated the King, could control the victory.

The fanatics were fuelling the rebellion, changing it. They spoke now not just of abolishing the bishops, but of abolishing the King as well. Men preached an end to property and privilege and Sir George remembered with horror a popular verse of the previous year:

Wee’l teach the nobles how to crouch,

And keep the gentry downe.

Well, Sir George was a gentleman, and his eldest child, Anne, had married the Earl of Fleet who was a noble. The Earl of Fleet, a good Puritan, believed that the fanatics could be contained, but Sir George no longer did. He could not support a cause that would, in the end, destroy him and his children, and so he had decided, reluctantly, to fight against that cause. He would leave London. He would pack his precious books, his silver, his pewter and his furniture, and he would abandon London and Parliament, to return to Lazen Castle.

He would miss London. He looked up from the Harington and stared fondly at the cathedral precinct. This was the place where unemployed house servants came to look for new employers, it was where the booksellers could set up their stalls, and it was where virulent sermons were preached beneath St Paul’s Cross. It was a place of life, colour, movement, and crowds, and Sir George would miss it. He liked the sense of life in London, its crowded streets, the never-ending noise, the long conversations, the feeling that things happened here because they were forced to happen. He would miss the politics, the laughter, and the house near Charing Cross from which, on the one side, he could look into green fields, and on the other into the smoky heart of the great city. Yet London was the heart of Parliament’s rebellion and he could not stay if he changed sides.

‘Sir George! Sir George!’ The voice called to him from the direction of Ludgate Hill. ‘Sir George!’

Reluctantly he put the book back on the table. This was a man he could not brush off by pretending to read. ‘My dear John!’

Only minutes before Sir George had been thinking of his son-in-law, the Earl of Fleet, and now the Earl, red-faced and sweating, pushed his way through the midday crowds. ‘Sir George!’ he called out again, fearful that his father-in-law might yet escape.

Sir George was fifty-five, counted an old man by his colleagues, yet he remained alert and spry. His hair was white, yet there was a liveliness to his face that made him seem younger than his years. The Earl of Fleet, on the other hand, though twenty years Sir George’s junior, had the burdened face of a man old before his time. He was a serious man; even, Sir George suspected, a tedious man. Like many other aristocrats he was a confirmed Puritan who fought for Parliament. ‘I thought I might find you here, father-in-law, I’ve come from Whitehall.’

He made it sound like a complaint. Sir George smiled. ‘It’s always good to see you, John.’

‘We have to speak, Sir George, a matter of utmost importance.’

‘Ah.’ Sir George looked about the precinct, knowing that the Earl would not wish to be overheard in such a public place. Reluctantly Sir George suggested that they share a boat back to Whitehall. It was odd, Sir George thought, how no one minded being overheard by watermen.

They walked down to St Paul’s wharf, down the steep street that was noisy with trade and shaded by washing strung between the overhanging upper storeys. They joined the queue waiting for the watermen, keeping to the right for they needed a two-oared boat and not the single sculls that sufficed a lone passenger. The Earl of Fleet frowned at the delay. He was a busy man, preparing to leave in a week’s time for the war in the west country. Sir George could not imagine his portly, self-important son-in-law as a leader of troops, but he kept his amusement to himself.

They shuffled down the stone quay as the queue shortened, and Sir George looked to his left at the sunlight on the houses of London Bridge. It was a pity, he thought, that the houses burned at the city end of the bridge had never been rebuilt, it gave the great structure a lopsided look, but the bridge, with its houses, shops, palace, and chapel built above the wide river, was still one of the glories of Europe. Sir George felt the sadness of loss. He would miss the sun glinting on the Thames, the water thronged with boats, the skyline below the bridge thicketed with masts.

‘Where to, genn’l’men?’ a cheerful voice shouted at them and the Earl handed Sir George into the boat.

‘Privy Stairs!’ The Earl of Fleet managed to sound as if their business was of vast importance.

The watermen spun their boat, leaned into the oars, and the small craft surged into the stream. Sir George looked at his son-in-law. ‘You wanted to talk, John?’

‘It’s Toby, Sir George.’

‘Ah!’ Sir George had been worried that the Earl might have guessed his wavering loyalty, but instead he wished to speak about Sir George’s other concern: his son. ‘What’s he done now?’

‘You don’t know?’

Sir George tipped his plain hat back so that the sun could warm his forehead. To his right the wall of London ended at Baynard’s Castle, beyond which was the old Blackfriar’s Theatre. Sir George decided innocence was his best defence against the Earl. ‘Toby? He’s at Gray’s Inn, you know that. I think he should know something of the law, John, enough to steer well clear of it later. Mind you, I think he’s bored. Yes, very bored. It makes him boisterous, but I was boisterous once.’ He looked at his son-in-law. ‘Young men should be boisterous, John.’

The Earl of Fleet frowned. He had never been boisterous. ‘You will forgive me, Sir George, but it is not that he is boisterous.’ Water splashed on his coat and he ineffectually flapped at the black cloth. ‘I fear you will not be happy, father-in-law.’ The Earl was obviously distressed at being the bearer of bad news.

Sir George spoke gently. ‘I’m rather in suspense at this moment.’

‘Quite so, quite so.’ Fleet nodded vigorously, then took the plunge. ‘Your son, Sir George, is actively striving for our enemies. He pretends otherwise, but it is so.’ The Earl spoke ponderously, poking his finger into his knee as if to emphasise his words. ‘If his activities reach the ear of the competent authorities then he will be arrested, tried, and doubtless imprisoned.’

‘Yes.’ Sir George still spoke softly. He looked away from his companion at the crowd waiting for boats at the Temple Stairs. Sir George knew of Toby’s activities, because his son had told him of them, but how on earth had the Earl of Fleet discovered them? ‘I hope you’re sure of this, John.’

‘Quite sure.’ The Earl of Fleet was genuinely upset at being the bearer of bad news. ‘It is, I fear, quite certain.’

‘You’d better tell me, then.’

The Earl began at the beginning, as Sir George feared he would, and he pedantically described Toby’s activities. It was all, Sir George knew, correct. Toby had become embroiled in a Royalist conspiracy, a conspiracy that Sir George knew was doomed to failure. There were rich merchants in London who were not supporters of Parliament, but whose businesses prevented them from leaving the city. Some had sent word to the King in Oxford that, if he were to ask it, men might flock to his standard raised in the centre of London. They planned a rebellion against the rebels, an uprising in the heart of London, and Sir George knew that Toby had been charged with discovering their exact strength and ascertaining how many men would follow the Royalist merchants.

Sir George knew because Toby had told him. There was a great deal of respect and love between father and son, and though Sir George did not wholeheartedly approve of Toby’s clandestine activity, he could not find it within his uncertain loyalties to forbid it.

The Earl of Fleet turned his round, serious face to Sir George. ‘One of the men Toby spoke to has a secretary, a man strong in the Lord, and the secretary reported it to the minister of his congregation. The minister, knowing of my relationship with you, laid the matter before me. And now I have come to you.’

‘And I thank you for that.’ Sir George was sincere. ‘It’s put you in an awkward position, John.’

The boat was turning south round the great bend. To their left was the empty untidiness of Lambeth Marsh, to their right the rich houses of the Strand. The Earl lowered his voice. ‘I must act soon, Sir George, I must.’

‘Of course you must.’ Sir George knew that his son-in-law, an honest man, would be forced to go to the proper authorities within a few days. ‘How long, John?’

The Earl did not reply at once. The boat had gone to the Surrey bank where the current was weaker, but now the watermen were beginning the wide turn that would bring them smoothly downstream to the Privy Stairs at Whitehall. The Earl frowned at his damp coat. ‘I must report this by next Lord’s Day.’

Six days till Sunday. ‘Thank you, John.’ Six days to remove Toby from London, to send him to safety at Lazen Castle. The thought made Sir George smile. His wife, the formidable Lady Margaret Lazender, would welcome her husband’s change of allegiance. She would doubtless wholeheartedly approve of her son’s secret actions for the King.

Sir George paid the stroke oar, then climbed on to the stairs. He walked beside his taller son-in-law along the right of way that led through the royal Palace, under the archway, and into King Street. ‘I’m for home, John.’

‘And I for Westminster.’

‘You’ll come and dine before you leave London?’

‘Of course.’

‘Good, good.’ Sir George looked at the blue sky above the new Banqueting Hall. ‘I hope the weather lasts.’

‘A good harvest, yes.’

They parted, and Sir George walked slowly home. Whitehall had never looked better. He would miss it, though he acknowledged pleasure at the thought of rejoining Lady Margaret in Lazen. His wife, whom Sir George loved, refused to travel to London, saying it was a viperous den of lawyers, thieves and politicians. Sir George hated being away from the city. Perhaps, he admitted to himself with a smile, that was why their marriage had been so good. Lady Margaret loved him from Dorset, while he loved her from London.

He crossed the road to avoid a virulent Puritan member of the Commons who was bound to detain him twenty minutes to tell him the latest gossip about the King’s flirtation with the Roman Catholics. Sir George touched his hat once, in reply to a similar greeting from Sir Grenville Cony who passed in his coach. A powerful man, Sir Grenville, deep in the inner councils of Parliament and paymaster to half the rebel army. Sir George had the uncanny impression that Sir Grenville, in a single smiling glance from his coach, had divined Sir George’s wavering loyalty.

Sir George stopped at Charing Cross, looking over at the Royal Mews, because a stage wagon, come from the west, blocked his path. The wagon had huge, broad wheels to negotiate the muddy, rutted roads, though this summer the going had been dry and easy. The coach roof was piled with luggage and passengers, but Sir George’s eye was caught by a girl who stared with awe and wonder through the leather-curtained window. His breath almost caught in his throat. She was more beautiful than any girl he had seen in years. He caught her eye unintentionally and raised his hand in a polite salute so she would not take offence.

If I were thirty years younger, he thought, and the desire amused him as he crossed towards his house. He envied the girl. Her expression seemed to convey that this was her first sight of London, and he was jealous of all the experiences that lay before her. He must leave the great city.

Mrs Pierce opened the door to him. ‘Master.’ She took his hat and cane. ‘Master Toby’s upstairs.’

‘He is? Good!’ Sir George glanced at the staircase. He must pack his son off to safety in the next six days, send him far away from the vengeance of the Saints. Toby must return to Lazen, and his father would follow. Sir George slowly climbed the stairs.

Campion saw the elderly man salute her with his cane, she almost smiled in return, but then her fear of the unknown, her dread of the great city, overtook her and the moment passed.

She had reached London, and the enormity of her achievement had astonished her even as it scared her.

If a child is punished often and punished cruelly, and if a parent has such an all-embracing concept of sin that even the most innocent acts can lead to punishment, then the child will learn early to be cunning. Campion had learned early and learned well, and it had been cunning that had brought her this far.

Cunning and more than a little luck. She had waited one more day, then left the house well before dawn. She was dressed in her sober best and carrying a bundle of food, coins and one spare dress. The seal was about her neck, hidden beneath her bodice, while the pearled gloves and the letter were in her bundle.

She had walked east, towards the dawn, and for a time she had been exhilarated. Two hours later, as the sun flooded the fields and woods, the exhilaration had ended. She was walking into a sheltered valley where the road crossed a stream when a filthy beggar erupted from a ditch. He had possibly meant her no harm, but the bearded face, the grunting sounds, and the single, reaching, clawing hand had terrified her and she had run, easily outstripping him, and thereafter she had walked cautiously and warily, fearing the dangers that this strange world contained.

An hour later, when she was already tired and dispirited, a farmer’s wife who drove a wagon offered her a ride. The wagon was heavy with flax, the stalks rustling as the horses dragged it, and even though the flax was going south-east Campion accepted the ride because the woman’s company was a protection against danger. Campion told the woman that she was being sent to London to work for her uncle, and when the woman asked scornfully why she was travelling alone, Campion invented a story: her mother had suddenly been evicted from her cottage, Campion was the only hope of raising money and her mother had begged her to accept her uncle’s offer of employment. Her mother, Campion said, was sick. She told the story well and the farmer’s wife sympathised, and did not abandon Campion when the wagon reached its destination at Winterborne Zelston.

A carrier was in the village, going to Southampton with a string of mules, and the farmer’s wife arranged for Campion to go with the man and his wife. The carrier, like so many travelling people, was a Puritan and Campion was glad of it. She might find their religion oppressive and cruel, but she knew they would also be honest and trustworthy. The carrier’s wife clucked as she heard Campion’s story. ‘You poor thing, dear. You’d best come to Southampton, then on to London. It’s safer that way nowadays.’

She slept that first night in the public room of an inn, sharing the room with a dozen women, and there were times in the reaches of the night when she wished she was back home in Werlatton. She had launched herself on the stream, and its current was already taking her to strange, frightening places where she did not know how to behave. Yet the thought of Scammell, of his flabby, heavy desire for her, of being forced to mother his children, made her determined to endure.

In the cold dawn she paid for her lodgings with a gold coin, causing raised eyebrows, and she had to trust that she was given the correct coins in change. The women’s privy was an empty pigsty, open to the sky. It was all so strange. The broadsheets pasted on to the wall of the tavern told of Puritan victories against the King, for this was an area loyal to Parliament.

The carrier’s wife, having settled her own bill, took her out into the street where her husband had already strung the mules into their chain. They walked into the dawn again and Campion’s spirits soared to the sky for she had survived one whole day.

The carrier, Walter, was a taciturn man, as stubborn as the mules that made him a living. He walked slowly at the head of his string, his eyes on his Bible that his wife proudly told Campion he had recently learned to read. ‘Not all the words, mind you, but most of them. He reads me nice stories from the scriptures.’

It clouded over that day, great clouds that piled from the south, and in the afternoon it rained. That evening, in a tavern on the edge of the New Forest, Campion dried herself in front of a fire. She drank small beer and stayed close to Walter’s wife, Miriam, who protected her from the men who tried to flirt with the beautiful, shy girl beside the hearth. Miriam tutted. ‘Your mother should have married you off.’

‘I think she wanted me at home.’ She instantly feared that Miriam would ask why, in that case, her mother had sent her to London, but the carrier’s wife was thinking of other things.

‘It’s not a blessing, dear.’

‘What?’

‘To be fair, like you. You can see the disturbance in the men. Still, the Lord didn’t make you proud, and that’s a blessing. But if I were you, dear, I’d marry and marry soon. How old be you?’

‘Eighteen,’ Campion lied.

‘Late, late. Now I was wed to Walter at fifteen, and a better man God could not have shaped in His clay, b’aint that be, Walter?’

Walter, puzzling his way through Deuteronomy, looked up and grunted shyly. He went back to his scriptures and his pot of ale.

Campion looked at Miriam. ‘Don’t you have children?’

‘Lord bless you, child, but the children be growed. Them that God let grow. Our Tom now, he be married, and the girls are in service. That’s why I travel with Walter, to keep him company and out of trouble!’ She laughed at her own joke and Campion was surprised to see a warm smile soften Walter’s stern face. The joke was evidently an old one between them, a comforting one, and Campion knew she was with good, kind people and wished that she did not need to deceive them.

They crossed the New Forest the next day, travelling in company with two dozen other people, and Walter pulled out a great pistol that he stuck in his belt and laid a sword across the leading mule’s packs. They were not troubled in the forest though, except by more rain that soaked the path and dripped from the trees long after the showers had stopped. By afternoon the sun shone again and they were coming close to Southampton where Campion must leave Miriam’s company.

Each stage of her journey loomed ahead to worry her. She had reached Southampton safely, and she was further from home now than she had ever dreamed of going, but there was still the largest obstacle to be cleared; the journey to London itself. Miriam asked if she had much money and Campion said yes, about five pounds, and Miriam told her to take the stage wagon. ‘It’s the safest way, child. Is your uncle expecting you?’

‘I think so.’

‘Well, you take the wagon. Who knows, maybe he’ll pay for you?’ She laughed, then took Campion to the huge inn where the wagons left, and kissed her farewell. ‘You’re a good girl, I can tell. The Lord protect you, child. We’ll pray for you.’

And perhaps the prayers worked, for at Southampton Campion met Mrs Swan, and although Mildred Swan was not the likeliest person to be God’s instrument, she was undoubtedly effective. Within minutes of seeing Campion, lost and frightened, she had taken the girl under her wing. They shared a bed and Campion listened to the interminable story of Mildred Swan’s life.

She had been visiting her sister who was married to a clergyman in Southampton and was now returning to her own home in London. The story, interrupted by sleep, was picked up the next morning as they waited in the cobbled yard. ‘I’m a widow, dear, so I knows about sorrows and troubles.’ She had a huge, untidy bundle on the ground, next to a basket filled with pies and fruit. As she turned to check on their safety she saw an ostler loitering near her belongings. ‘Get your thieving eyes off them! I’m a Christian woman travelling defenceless! Don’t you think you can thieve from me!’ The ostler, astonished, made a hasty retreat. Mrs Swan, who liked to arrange the world about her, smiled happily at Campion. ‘You must tell me about your mother, dear.’

Mildred Swan was a plump, middle-aged woman, wearing a dress of faded blue, with a gaudy, flowered scarf about her shoulders and a bright red bonnet crammed on unruly, fair hair. She did not wait for Campion to answer, instead she wanted to know whether Campion planned to travel on top or inside the coach. Campion said she did not know.

‘You’d better travel with me, dear. Inside. Then we can protect each other against the men.’ The last words were spoken loudly enough for a tall, gloomy-looking minister to hear. Mrs Swan watched him to make sure the words had registered, then looked back to Campion. ‘So?’

Campion had changed her story a little. She had kept a sick, failing mother, but now she claimed to be travelling to London to see a lawyer about an inheritance. It was close enough to the truth, for Campion had conceived the idea that Grenville Cony must be the lawyer who had arranged the Covenant.

By the time Campion had explained about the inheritance they were inside the wagon, perched on a cushioned bench, and Mrs Swan had jostled the other passengers unmercifully to make herself ample space. The minister, a Bible now in his hands, sat opposite Campion by the window.

Mrs Swan was fascinated by Campion’s sick mother. ‘She’s got thin blood, has she, dear?’

‘Yes.’

‘Buttercups, dear, buttercups. Buttercups work for thin blood, dear. My mother had thin blood. She died, of course, but it wasn’t just the thin blood. Oh no.’ She said the last words darkly as though they enshrined a terrible secret. ‘What else does she have, dear?’

For two hours, as the wagon rumbled and lurched northwards, Campion heaped upon her mother the troubles of a female Job, each ailment more terrible than the last, and for each Mrs Swan had a remedy, always infallible, though she also always knew of someone who had died despite them. The conversation, though tiring on Campion’s imagination, was a very heaven for Mrs Swan. ‘The ague, dear? My grandmother had the ague, God bless her, but she didn’t die of it. No. She was cured, but then she prayed to St Petronilla. Can’t do that now, of course, thanks to some I won’t name.’ She glowered at the minister to whom she had taken an irrational dislike. ‘Does she have sore breasts, dear?’

‘Very.’

‘She would, she would,’ Mrs Swan sighed heavily. ‘I had sore breasts, dear, when my husband was alive, but then he was a sailor. Yes. He brought me the image of St Agnes from Lisbon and, do you know, it worked like a charm, but then it was a charm, of course.’ She was raising her voice to provoke the minister. ‘Mind you, dear, they were sore. And there’s plenty of them to hurt!’ She pealed with laughter at the thought, her eyes unblinking on the man of God who, sure enough, reacted. Whether it was the talk of Romish saints or the discussion of breasts that had offended him, Campion could not tell. He leaned towards Mrs Swan.

‘You are indecent in your talk, woman!’

She ignored him and smiled at Campion. ‘Does she have long ears, dear?’

‘No.’

‘God be thanked for that, dear, ’cos there’s no cure for long ears except a clouting. A good clouting!’ She turned to the minister, but he had already leaned back in defeat, his eyes on Ecclesiastes. Mrs Swan tried to rouse him again. ‘Has she got the falling sickness?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Yes. My aunt had that, God rest her. One moment she was on her feet, the next she was flat on the floor. Just like that. St Valentine cures that, dear.’ The minister stayed silent.

Mrs Swan settled back on the bench. ‘I’m going to sleep now, dear. If anyone molests you,’ and here she looked hard at the travelling preacher, ‘you just wake me up.’

Mrs Swan was her guide, her mentor, her protector, and now, as they alighted at the end of the Strand, her landlady too. She would not hear of Campion seeking lodging in an inn, though she had not been slow to make clear that her hospitality was not free. ‘Not that I’m greedy, dear, no. No one can say that of Mildred Swan, but a body has to look after a body.’ With which gnomic words the deal had been made.

Even though Charing Cross and the Strand were not London proper, but just the westward extension of the houses built outside the old walls of the city, it seemed fearful to Campion. The eastern sky was hazed dark with the smoke of innumerable chimneys, a haze pierced by more church towers and spires than Campion could have dreamed possible; the whole overshadowed by the great cathedral on the hill. The houses in the Strand, down which Mrs Swan led her, were huge and rich, their doors guarded by armed men, while the street was filled with cripples and beggars. Campion saw men with empty, festering eye-sockets, children with no legs who swung themselves along on strong arms, and women whose faces were covered with open sores. It stank.

Mrs Swan noticed none of it. ‘This is the Strand, dear. Used to be a lot of gentry along here, but most have gone, more’s the pity. It’s all Saints, now, and Saints don’t pay like the gentry.’ Mrs Swan had been left money by her sea-captain husband, but she augmented her income by embroidery, and the Puritan revolution in London had lowered the demand for such decorative work.

A troop of soldiers marched from the city, long pikes over their shoulders, their barred helmets bright in the sunlight. People were thrust unceremoniously from their path. Mrs Swan shouted scornfully at them, ‘Make way for the Lord’s anointed!’ An officer looked sternly at her, but Mildred Swan was not a woman to be overawed by the military. ‘Watch your step, Captain!’ She laughed as the officer hastily dodged a pile of horse-dung. She made a dismissive gesture at the soldiers. ‘Just playing, they are. Did you see those boys at the Knight’s Bridge?’ The coach had been stopped at the bridge in the fields to the west of London, and the soldiers had searched the travellers. Mrs Swan snorted. ‘Little boys, they are. That’s all! Shave their heads and they think they can rule the world! This way, dear.’

Campion was led into an alley so narrow that she could not walk alongside Mrs Swan. She was lost now, confused by the maze of tiny streets, but at last Mrs Swan reached a blue door which she laboriously unlocked, pushed Campion inside, and Campion reflected, as she settled into the small parlour, that she had reached her destination. Here, in this great, confusing city, she might find the answer to the seal which hung between her breasts. Here too was Toby Lazender, and in a world where her only friend was Mrs Swan, he suddenly loomed large in her thoughts. She was in London at last, free.

Mrs Swan sat heavily opposite her, pulled up her skirts and took off her pattens. ‘Oh, my poor corns! Well, dear! We’re here.’

Campion smiled. ‘We’re here.’ Where the mystery could be solved.