Читать книгу A Crowning Mercy - Bernard Cornwell - Страница 16

7

Campion’s behaviour, before she ran away from Werlatton, had been so solitary and eccentric that her absence on the first morning provoked nothing more than grumbles and self-satisfied noises from Goodwife saying that she had always known the girl could not be trusted. By mid-afternoon the grumbles had turned to alarm in Scammell’s head and he ordered a horse saddled and rode himself about the bounds of the estate.

Even when it was realised that Campion had disappeared, their imagination could not encompass anything so dramatic as a journey to London. On the second day, at dawn, Scammell ordered Tobias Horsnell to search the villages to the north, while he and Ebenezer went south and west. By then the trail was long cold, and that evening, in the great hall, Samuel Scammell felt the stirrings of fear. The girl was his passport to riches beyond dream and she had gone.

Goodwife Baggerlie took pleasure in Campion’s disappearance, much as bad news will always cheer a prophet of doom. Goodwife had joined eagerly in the Slythes’ persecution of their daughter, a persecution that was rooted in a distaste for her looks, her spirit, and her apparent unwillingness to subdue her soul to the tedious boredom of Puritan existence. Now that Campion had fled, Goodwife dredged from the past an endless catalogue of trivial sins, each magnified in Goodwife’s sullen mind. ‘She has a devil, master, a devil.’

Faithful Unto Death Hervey, who had joined the search, looked at Goodwife. ‘A devil?’

‘Her father, God bless him, could control it.’ Goodwife sniffed and dabbed at red eyes with her apron. ‘“He that spareth his rod hateth his son: but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes.”’

‘Amen,’ said Scammell.

‘Praise his word,’ said Ebenezer, who had never been beaten by his father, though he had often watched as his sister was lashed with the great belt.

Faithful Unto Death Hervey steepled long fingers in front of his bobbing Adam’s apple. ‘“As a jewel of gold in a swine’s snout, so is a fair woman which is without discretion.”’

‘Indeed and indeed.’ Scammell searched his mind for a suitable verse of scripture so he would not be left behind in this company. Nothing came to mind except inappropriate words from the Song of Solomon, words he dared not say aloud: ‘Thy two breasts are like two young roes that are twins.’ He groaned inwardly. He wondered what her breasts were like, breasts that he had yearned to fondle, and now, perhaps he would never know. She had gone, taking her beauty with her, and taking, too, Scammell’s hope of wealth. ‘We must watch and pray.’

‘Amen,’ Ebenezer said. ‘Watch and pray.’

Campion’s supposition was right. Grenville Cony was, indeed, a lawyer, only now, according to Mrs Swan, much more. ‘He’s a knight, dear, Sir Grenville, and he’s so high and mighty that he doesn’t notice the likes of you and I. He’s a politician. A lawyer and a politician!’ Her words left no doubt as to her opinions of both categories. Lawyers, to Mrs Swan, were the lowest form of life. ‘Killing’s too good for them, dear. Bloodsuckers, dear. If God hadn’t invented sin, then the lawyers would, just to line their own purses.’ She expounded further so that her life, to Campion, seemed to have been a perilous journey between the dangers of various illnesses on the one side, and the plottings of predatory lawyers on the other. ‘I could tell you stories, dear,’ said Mrs Swan, and proved it by doing so; many of the stories of a complexity that would have done credit to a lawyer, but all distinguished by endings in which Mrs Swan, single-handedly, confounded the entire legal profession.

Yet Campion could see little choice but to visit Sir Grenville Cony and here, once more, fortune smiled on her. A neighbour of Mrs Swan, a French tailor, knew Sir Grenville’s address which turned out to be one of the massive houses in the Strand.

Mrs Swan was pleased. ‘That’s convenient, dear, nice and close.’ She was threading coloured silks on to fine needles. ‘You tell him, dear, that if he wants any embroidery then he doesn’t have far to go.’

So, on her second afternoon in London, Campion walked to the Strand. She was dressed soberly, her hair covered with a bonnet, but even so she was conscious of the glances men gave her and glad of the company of the tailor. Jacques was elderly and fine-mannered, helping her across the busy Strand, gracious in his words to her. ‘You will find yourself successfully home, Miss Slythe?’

‘You’ve been very kind.’

‘No, no, no. It is not every day that I walk the streets with such beauty. You have given me pleasure, Miss Slythe. This is it.’

Cony’s house was not as large as some on the Strand, not to be compared with Northumberland or York House, but it was impressive nonetheless. It was built in dark brick, its storeys rising to a high, stone balustrade with carved beasts guarding the corners. The tall mullioned windows were masked by velvet curtains. The door to the house was guarded by an armed man, a pike at his side, who smirked at Campion and was rude to Jacques Moreau. ‘What do you want?’

‘The lady has business with Sir Grenville.’

‘Business, eh?’ He looked Campion up and down, taking his time. ‘What sort of business, eh?’

She had come determined to be humble, a favour seeker, but the man’s attitude annoyed her. ‘Business Sir Grenville would not want discussed with you.’

It was evidently the right answer, delivered in the right tone, for he sniffed, jerked his head towards the side of the building, and spoke with a little more respect. ‘Business is down the alley.’

She said farewell to the tailor on the corner, then went into the narrow, high alleyway. It ran to the river, and she could see the sheen of the sun on the water and, beyond it, the dreariness of Lambeth Marsh.

A small porchway was two-thirds of the way down the alley, close enough for her to smell the river, and she presumed this was the door where those with business visited Sir Grenville Cony. There was no guard here. She knocked.

No one answered. She could hear voices from the Strand, the sound of wheels on stone, and once there was a splash from the river, but the house seemed to exude silence. She was nervous suddenly. She felt the seal beneath her dress, and the touch of the gold on her skin reminded her that this house might hold the secret of her future, the secret of the Covenant that might free her from her father’s stranglehold imposed by his will and marriage settlement. Emboldened, she knocked again.

She waited. She was about to knock a third time, indeed was looking back into the alley for a loose cobblestone that could make more noise on the wooden door, when a tiny shutter banged up.

‘Don’t you know there’s a bell?’ a voice demanded.

‘A bell?’

‘To your right.’

She had not seen it in the shadows, but now she saw an iron handle hanging from a chain. The irritation of the person behind the tiny shutter seemed to demand an apology, so she made one. The man was slightly mollified. ‘What do you want?’

‘I want to see Sir Grenville Cony, sir.’

‘To see Sir Grenville? Everyone wants that! Why don’t you watch him pass in his coach, or in his private barge? Isn’t that sight enough?’

She could not see the man to whom the petulant voice belonged, she could only make out the glitter of one eye and the half shape of a nose pressed against the iron grille that barred the small opening. ‘I have business with Sir Grenville, sir.’

‘Business!’ The man seemed never to have heard of the word. ‘Business! Put your petition here. Hurry!’ The eye and nose were replaced with fingers reaching for her petition.

‘I don’t have a petition!’

She thought the man had gone, for there was silence after the fingers disappeared, but then the glittering eye came back. ‘No petition?’

‘No.’

‘Does Mr Cony know you?’ The question was asked grudgingly.

‘He knew my father, sir.’

‘Wait!’

The shutter dropped with a smart click, leaving the house in silence again, and Campion walked back into the alley and stared down at the river. A heavy barge was crawling across her narrow view, propelled by long, wooden sweeps that were rowed by men standing on its decks. One by one, three heavy cannons came into view, lashed to the barge’s deck, a cargo going westward to war.

The shutter snapped up. ‘Girl!’

‘Sir?’

‘Name?’

‘Dorcas Slythe.’ This was no time for fanciful, self-adopted names. She could hear the scratch of quill on paper.

‘Your business?’

She hesitated, provoking a tut from the grille. She had half expected, having been told to wait, that she would be invited into the house, and so she was not prepared with a message. She thought quickly. ‘The Covenant, sir.’

‘The what?’ There was no interest in his voice. ‘Covenant? Which one?’

She thought again. ‘St Matthew, sir.’

The quill scratched beyond the door. ‘Sir Grenville’s not here, girl, so you can’t see him today, and Wednesday is the day for public business. Not this Wednesday, though, because he’s busy. Next Wednesday. Come at five o’clock. No. Six. In the afternoon,’ he added grudgingly.

She nodded, appalled at the time she would have to wait for any answer. The man grunted. ‘Of course he may not want to see you, in which case your time will have been wasted.’ He laughed. ‘Good day!’ The shutter snapped down, abandoning her, and she turned back to the Strand and to Mrs Swan.

In the house she had left, in a great comfortable room that overlooked the Thames, Sir Grenville Cony stared at the barge which lumbered away from him around the Lambeth bend. Guns for Parliament, guns bought with money that had probably been lent by Sir Grenville himself at twelve per cent interest, but the thought gave him no pleasure. He felt his belly gingerly.

He had eaten too much. He pressed his huge belly again, wondering if the small pain in his right side was simple indigestion and his fat, white face flinched slightly as the pain increased. He would summon Dr Chandler to the house.

He knew his secretary was at the House of Commons so he walked himself to the clerk’s room. One of the clerks, a weedy man named Bush, was coming through the far door. ‘Bush!’

‘Sir?’ Bush showed the fear that all the clerks felt of their master.

‘Why are you away from your desk? Did you seek permission to wander through the land on my time? Is it your bladder again? Your bowels? Answer me, you beast of Belial! Why?’

Bush stuttered, ‘The door, sir. The door.’

‘The door! I heard no bell! Correct me, Sillers,’ he looked at the chief clerk, ‘but I heard no bell.’

‘They knocked, sir.’ Sillers dealt laconically with his master, yet never without respect.

‘Who knocked? Strangers at my door, dealt with by Bush. Bush! Who was this lucky man?’

Bush stared in fear at the short, fat, grotesque man who stalked him. Sir Grenville Cony was grossly fat, his face had the appearance of a sly white frog. His hair, white after his fifty-seven years, was cherubically curly. He smiled on Bush, as he smiled on most of his victims.

‘It was not a man, sir. A girl.’

‘A girl!’ Sir Grenville feigned surprise. ‘You’d like that, Bush, wouldn’t you? A girl, eh? Have you ever had one? Know what they feel like, eh? Do you? Do you?’ He had backed Bush into a corner. ‘Who was this slut who has put you into such a fever, Bush?’

The other clerks, fourteen of them, smiled secretly. Bush licked his lips and brought the paper up to his face. ‘A Dorcas Slythe, sir.’

‘Who?’ Cony’s voice had changed utterly. No longer flippant and careless, but suddenly hard as steel, the voice that could ride down committees in Parliament and silence courtrooms. ‘Slythe? What was her business.’

‘A Covenant, sir. St Matthew.’ Bush was quaking.

Sir Grenville Cony was very still, his voice very quiet. ‘What did you tell her, Bush?’

‘To come back next Wednesday, sir.’ He shook his head and added in desperation, ‘They were your instructions, sir!’

‘My instructions! Mine! My instructions are for you to deal intelligently with my business. God! You fool! You fool! Grimmett!’ His voice had been rising, till his final call became a shrill scream.

‘Sir?’ Thomas Grimmett, chief of Grenville Cony’s guards, came through the door. He was a big man, hard-faced, utterly fearless in his master’s presence.

‘This Bush, Grimmett, this fool, is to be punished.’ Cony ignored the clerk’s whimpers. ‘Then he is to be thrown out of my employment. Do you understand?’

Grimmett nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Sillers! Come here!’ Sir Grenville Cony stalked back into his room. ‘Fetch the papers on Slythe. We have work, Sillers, work.’

‘You have the Scottish Commissioners to see, sir.’

‘The Scottish Commissioners can bubble the Thames by farting, Sillers. We have work.’

The punishment was administered during Cony’s dinner, so that Sir Grenville could watch while he ate. He enjoyed it. Bush’s squeals of pain made a better sauce for the lamb, chicken, prawns and beef than anything his kitchen could provide. He felt better afterwards, much better, so he no longer regretted that he had forgotten to summon Dr Chandler. After dinner, when Bush had been taken away to be hurled into some gutter, Sir Grenville graciously allowed the Scottish Commissioners to see him. They were, he knew, all fervent Presbyterians, so he prayed aloud with them, praying for a Presbyterian England, before settling to his work with them.

The girl. He thought of her, wondering where she was in London, and whether she would bring him the seal. Above all he wondered whether she would bring him that. St Matthew! He could feel the excitement of it, the joy of a long-ago plot well laid. He sat up late that night, drinking claret before the darkened river, and he raised his glass to the grotesque reflection in the diamond-paned window, a window that broke his squat, heavy body into a hundred overlapping fragments. ‘To the Covenant,’ he toasted himself. ‘To the Covenant.’

Campion could only wait. Mrs Swan seemed genuinely glad of her company, not least because Campion could read the news-sheets aloud to her. Mrs Swan did not see the ‘point’ in reading, but she was avid for news. The war had made the news-sheets popular though Mrs Swan did not approve of the London sheets which, naturally, supported Parliament’s cause. At heart Mrs Swan supported the King and what she felt in her heart emerged easily on to her tongue. She listened as Campion read the stories of Parliamentary victories, and each one was greeted with a scowl and a fervent hope that it was not true.

Not much news that summer brought relief to Parliament. Bristol had fallen and there had been no great victory by which the balance of that defeat could be redressed. There were numerous small skirmishes, enlarged by the news-sheets into premature Armageddons, but the victory Parliament wanted had not come. London had other reasons to be gloomy. In their search for money to prosecute the war, the Parliament had raised new taxes, on wine, leather, sugar, beer and even linen, taxes that made King Charles’s burden on London look light. Mrs Swan shook her head. ‘And coal’s short, dear. It’s desperate!’

London was warmed by coal brought by ship from Newcastle, but the King held Newcastle so the citizens of London faced a bitter winter.

‘Can’t you move away?’ Campion asked.

‘Dear me, no! I’m a Londoner, dear. Move away! The thought of it!’ Mrs Swan peered closely at her embroidery. ‘That’s very nice, though I say it myself. No, dear. I expect King Charles will be back by winter, then everything will be all right.’ She shifted closer to the window light. ‘Read me something else, dear. Something that will cheer a body up.’

There was little to cheer anyone in the news-sheet. Campion began reading a vituperative article which listed those members of the Commons in London who had still not signed the new Oath of Loyalty that had been demanded in June. Only a handful had not signed and the anonymous writer claimed, ‘that tho it bee said sicknesse bee the cause of their ommission, yet it bee more likelie a sicknesse of the courage than of the bodie’.

‘Can’t you find something interesting, dear?’ Mrs Swan asked, before biting a thread with her teeth. Campion said nothing. She was frowning at the ill-printed sheet so intently that Mrs Swan’s curiosity was aroused. ‘What is it, dear?’

‘Nothing. Really.’

Such an answer was a challenge to Mrs Swan, who could extract from nothing enough material to fill three happy mornings in gossip. She insisted on an answer, but even she was surprised that the subject of Campion’s interest was merely that Sir George Lazender was one of the members who had not signed the new oath. Then a thought suggested itself. ‘Do you know Sir George, dear?’

‘I met his son once.’

The embroidery went down. ‘Did you now?’

Campion endured a relentless cross-examination, confessing to her one meeting, though not the circumstances, and ending by slyly admitting that she wanted to see Toby again.

‘Why not, dear? So you should. Lazender, Lazender. Well-off, are they?’

‘I think so.’

Mrs Swan smelt a customer, if nothing else, and in the last evening light before the candles were lit she bullied Campion into borrowing paper, ink and a quill from Jacques Moreau. She wrote a simple message, merely saying that she was in London, staying with Mrs Swan (‘gentlewoman’, Mrs Swan insisted on that, and made Campion trace out the letters one by one to her satisfaction), and that she was in the house with the blue door in Bull Inn Court to which Toby would be a welcome visitor. For a moment she wondered how to sign the letter, uncertain if he would remember the fanciful name he had given her by the stream, but then she found she could not write her true, ugly name. She signed herself Campion. The next morning they both walked to Westminster. Mrs Swan took her to Parliament itself, pushing through the booksellers of Westminster Hall, past the crowded lawyers’ offices, to leave the message, care of Sir George, with a clerk of the Speaker. Then Campion was forced to wait with even more apprehension than she felt about Sir Grenville Cony and the mystery of St Matthew’s seal.

Even the diversions of London could not erase the expectations from her heart. Mrs Swan insisted on showing her the city, but every minute Campion was away from Bull Inn Court was a moment during which Toby might call, and she might miss him.

On the second evening after they had delivered the letter, they went to Jacques Moreau’s house where three households had gathered together for music. The French tailor played the viol, his wife the flute, and it should have been a happy evening, but Campion was racked with apprehension. Perhaps he would call this evening, when she was not in the house? Then she wondered if he would bother to call at all. Perhaps he would not remember her, or if he did he would dismiss the letter with a laugh, pitying her, and in those moments she wished she had not written to him. She convinced herself, listening to the music, that he would not come, so she tried to persuade herself that she did not want him to come. Then she wondered, if he did come, whether she would still like him. Perhaps it would all be a terrible, embarrassing mistake, and she tried once more to believe she was indifferent to his response. Yet every time there were footsteps in the Court she would look anxiously out of the window.

Perhaps, she thought, he was not in London. She invented a hundred reasons why he could not come, yet she still waited for the footsteps; she hoped, she feared, she waited.

She had met him once, only once, and in that one meeting she had fixed on him all her hopes, her dreams, her imagination of the word ‘love’, and she knew it was foolish, yet she had done it, and now she was frightened that he would come and she would discover that he was ordinary after all. Just another man who would stare at her as the men in London stared.

The next morning her hopes faded. So much time seemed to have passed since the letter was given to the clerk at Westminster, and it was impossible for her hope, fear and apprehension to stay at the same pitch. Campion was helping Mrs Swan’s maid in the small kitchen, plucking two scrawny chickens that had been bought that morning. She plucked with short, hard tugs while the maid was drawing the first bird, her hand plunged up to the wrist in entrails. There was a knocking on the door. The maid went to rinse her hand in the bucket, but Mrs Swan called that she was by the door and would answer.

Campion’s heart was racing. It could be just a customer, come to fetch a cushion cover or curtain square, and she tried to calm her hopeless expectancy. He would not come. She tried to persuade herself of that. There were voices in the hall but she could make out neither the words nor the speakers.

Mrs Swan’s voice grew louder and most distinct. She was talking of the chickens bought that morning. ‘Prices, dear! You wouldn’t believe it! I remember when you could feed a family of eight on five shillings a week, and good food too, but now you couldn’t give a man a square meal for that. Oh dear, my hair! If I’d known you were coming I’d have worn a cap.’

‘My dear Mrs Swan, you beauties obviously attract each other.’

It was he! The voice crashed on her with such sudden familiarity that it seemed she could never have forgotten. It was Toby, and she could hear him laughing, and Mrs Swan offering him the best chair, refreshment, and she hardly heard his reply. She had been pulling at the last, obstinate small feathers on the chicken and her apron was fluffy with the small wisps. She took her bonnet off and her hair hung loose. She knew she was blushing. She brushed desperately at the small feathers, twitched her hair, transferring the feathers to her head, and then there was a shadow in the doorway. She looked up and he stood there, grinning at her, and the grin turned into a laugh, and in that one moment she knew it was all right. She had not been wrong about him, she would never be wrong about him again.

She wondered how she could ever have forgotten his face with its easy smile, its curly red hair falling either side of the strong lines of jaw and cheek. He looked her up and down. ‘My little feathered angel.’

She almost threw the chicken at him. She was in love.