Читать книгу Cromwell’s Blessing - Peter Ransley - Страница 14

You could hear the noise in Whitehall, sense the tension in the shops and stalls of Westminster Hall. Cromwell was back. There were rumours that he and the Presbyterian leader, Denzil Holles, had come to blows. That the army was in revolt.

A coin to the Sergeant got me into the lobby. I waited for an opportunity to see Cromwell, my father’s letter burning a hole in my pocket. The debate grew in intensity. I could hear Cromwell’s voice, rising over shouts of derision. There is no more thrilling place than the House when you are part of it, and no worse, confusing place when you are out of it. I was even jealous of the printers’ runners. Reporting was forbidden and they smuggled out speeches, as I did years before.

When the debate was adjourned I saw one runner, illegal copy stuffed in his britches, wriggling his way through a crowd of arguing MPs. He was as snot-nosed and eel-slippery as I used to be, but a coin from my pocket stopped him. I deciphered the scrivener’s scrawl. The debate was about the army petition I had seen in Nehemiah’s room, for pay and indemnities. ‘H,’ I read. That must be Holles. I could not believe what he was quoted as saying: ‘The soldiers who have signed this petition are enemies of the state …’

Enemies of the state? The army that won the war? And was simply asking for its pay?

There was a shout. The boy snatched the papers and ran.

‘Seize him.’

The MP who gave chase was young and would have the legs on the boy. I felt responsible for having stopping him. And I was a runner at heart. It was instinctive. I stuck out my foot. The MP went flying, arms flailing. I just managed to catch him to break the worst of his fall and help him up.

‘I’m terribly sorry.’

He glared at me angrily, but my suit, if old, was of the finest silk, and I spoke with such concern, in my best Stonehouse, that he stopped short of accusing me. Someone else drew him away, telling him they had a motion to draw up. I recognised the sharp, vinegary tones immediately. I had tripped up Denzil Holles’s bag carrier.

It was stupid, but I could not resist it. I was longing for action, and if I could not debate Holles in the House, this was second best.

I bowed. ‘Lord Holles.’

He spoke through me, to the bag carrier. ‘Stonehouse. Comes from the same filth as that pamphleteer.’

I bowed again. ‘The same filth, my lord, who won the war, and whom you are calling enemies of the state.’

He whirled round. He was about fifty, and had eyes as sharp and vinegary as his voice. ‘Are you one of the men behind this wretched petition?’

I was about to answer when a hand clamped over my shoulder and I found myself staring into Cromwell’s eyes. He always seemed to look not at you, but into your very soul with his piercing eyes, somewhere between grey and green. His face was almost the colour of his buff uniform: he had not bothered to change before coming into the House. A wart above his left eyebrow quivered as he steered me away.

‘Don’t make it worse,’ he said. ‘We are losing the debate.’

‘Keep your puppies away from me, Cromwell!’ Holles shouted.

Cromwell did not respond, going towards the corridor that led to his office with another MP, Ireton. Mortified, I plunged after him, asking to see him, bumping into various people as I tried to catch his attention. Either Cromwell did not hear me, or he chose not to.

‘Make an appointment,’ Ireton said curtly.

I hated Ireton at that moment. In fact I hated Ireton at any moment. I hated him because he was thirty-six against my twenty-two, because with his sunken, hollow eyes he was broodingly serious and never laughed, because he was cold and rational where I was impulsive and, most of all, because he was Cromwell’s son-in-law and always at his elbow.

I stood dejected, watching them walk away. Then Cromwell turned and beckoned. If you had ridden with Cromwell in close combat you were one of his soldiers. Whatever your rank he knew your name. Whatever your weaknesses, if you struggled to overcome them he would stand by you. He never bragged, putting his victories down to God’s grace. When he talked to a regiment every single soldier felt he was talking to him. However tired he was, and I could see how drained he was after his illness, he had time, however little, for one of his soldiers. I shot over the lobby as if I was still a runner, then managed to control myself.

‘You’ll have to wait.’ Ireton scowled. ‘In there.’

I walked where he had pointed, into an anteroom so stuffed with drafts of speeches and yellowing parliamentary papers the door would not close properly. I sat squashed between a pile of ordinances and some old papers about the draining of the East Anglian fens, while Cromwell had meeting after meeting.

Boots clattered, voices droned. Cromwell was making arrangements to ride to Essex next day to hear the soldiers’ demands. In that stuffy, cramped space I nodded off. It was Ireton’s words that woke me with a start.

‘… French boat. They captured one of the sailors, but the man they were landing got away.’

Over a pile of papers, through the partly open door, I could see Cromwell reacting sharply. ‘When was this?’

‘A month ago.’

‘Who was he?’

‘I think you can guess. He was an excellent swordsman. He killed two of the customs men. He’s somewhere in the City – he’s been spotted at the Exchange. I have men out looking for him.’

A month ago. The dates fitted with Richard’s letter. So did the swordsmanship. I felt again the prick of the sword he held at my throat after Edgehill, touched the scar on my cheek where it had been cut open by one of his men. A surge of excitement ran through me. At one stroke I could have everything. It was my ticket to working with Cromwell, to becoming an MP. But it would have to be done so Lord Stonehouse did not know I was involved

Clever, clever Anne, who had put this idea into my mind. But she was wrong in one thing. She thought I had swallowed Lord Stonehouse speaking of me as his heir. I was a fool, but not that much of a fool. I had gloried in the possibility, but in my heart of hearts I knew it would never happen. A bastard and a printer’s daughter? That was why I kept my feet in Thomas Neave’s boots, while wearing Thomas Stonehouse’s plumed hat. Because I was determined to be my own man. But this changed everything.

With Richard out of the way, I would be the sole male heir. From that moment, hemmed in by a cage of musty papers, I could afford the luxury of belief. All this ran through my mind as Cromwell closed the door on Ireton and returned to his desk, eyes half-lidded in weariness.

Reflecting this sudden expansion of my inner world, I tilted my chair backwards, knocking over a pile of ordinances.

Cromwell pushed the door fully open. ‘Why, Tom! I forgot you were there.’

I scrambled up in confusion, picking up the papers.

‘Leave them, leave them. That is the Blasphemy Ordinance. Hanging people for denying the Trinity? The Presbyterians will never get that through.’

He unearthed the letter I had sent, asking to work with him. ‘Work with me, Tom?’ he laughed. ‘I hope not. We are at peace. Disbanding.’

‘I mean here.’

‘Here? In this Tower of Babel? Trying to bring all these contentious voices together? You would be bored to death.’

‘Not working with you.’

I meant it. As soon as I sat opposite him I realised how much I missed working with him. He made men not only believe in what they were doing, but believe in themselves. His brooding self-criticism, constantly questioning his own ability and his own frailty, led people to be much more open to his criticism of them. And so everyone worked with a common purpose, knowing that he drove no one more relentlessly than he drove himself.

I drew out Richard’s letter and opened it, glimpsing the words ‘forgive me … your father.’ Once again, the effort of that laboured scrawl brought a rush of feeling that caught me unawares. My eyes pricked and I was unable to speak. Suppose Richard was genuine? What if he had changed? I dismissed it. A man like that, who sent people to kill me?

‘What have you got there, Tom?’

‘I …’

It was not so much that I believed Richard was genuine; more that I knew I would never forgive myself if I did not at least try to find out before giving him away.

‘What is it, Tom?’ Cromwell said, more sharply, reaching out for the letter.

I pulled it away. ‘It – it is from a gentleman supporting me to be an MP.’

‘Lord Stonehouse will support you.’

‘He has refused to.’

‘And you expect me to?’

His refusal was implicit in the question. His manner became brusque. I had seen him reject people asking for favours many times before in this abrupt way, but it was humiliating when it happened to me. I stuffed my father’s letter in my bag and went to the door.

‘Wait. You have quarrelled with Lord Stonehouse? He has cut your allowance?’

He knew everything. Probably, I thought bitterly, Lord Stonehouse had told him, blocking any chance of him putting me forward as an MP. What happened next was even more humiliating, although he did it with the best of intentions, in the manner of a helping hand for an old army colleague down on his luck. He took me down the corridor to an office where a clerk was transcribing his last speech. A warrant made out to Thomas Stonehouse for army pay had the amount already filled in. Cromwell signed an army warrant in his large, rolling script, clapped me on the shoulders, and went.

The clerk checked the amount of pay I was owed in a ledger and completed the army warrant. He wore a fine linen shirt, rolled back at the wrists to protect it from ink splashes. It was the splashes, rather than the man, that I recognised.

‘Mr Ink,’ I cried, flinging my arms round the man whom I had known as a humble scrivener at Westminster, when he had smuggled out Mr Pym’s speeches for me to run with them to the printer, speeches which had begun the great rebellion against the King.

‘I am Mr Clarke,’ he said. ‘William.’ There was a hint of reproof in his bow. His dark grey doublet was severe, but fashionably unbuttoned at the waist to show the quality of his linen.

‘You have a new name and fine new clothes,’ I said.

He told me Clarke had always been his name. It was I, as a child, who had christened him Mr Ink, but now he had risen in the world he would appreciate being called William Clarke, Esq. It was said with a wink to show that somewhere inside those new clothes was my old friend Mr Ink, but it added to my feeling that everyone was rising in the world but me.

When I left that feeling stayed with me, and the army warrant in my pocket only reminded me of my humiliation. I walked slowly but reached Drury Lane all too soon. As I went through the passage, I thought of my father, wanting to answer his letter.

Anne looked at me expectantly as I was going into my study.

‘I did not tell Cromwell,’ I said. ‘Whatever he’s done, Richard is my father. I’ll write to him. See if he is sincere.’

I went to close the door but still she stood there. ‘Is that all?’

Silently I gave her the army warrant. She stared at Mr Ink’s elegant hand, and the rolling loops of Cromwell’s signature. For four months’ back pay I had been awarded eleven pounds, six shillings and threepence.

‘You fool,’ she said.

I thought she was going to tear it up. I snatched it from her so it did tear. There was a rush of blood to my head. A roaring in my ears. I gripped her by the shoulders and God knows what I would have done to her if I had not seen Luke staring from the hall.

Anne turned away and, without a word, took Luke by the hand and led him upstairs.