The Last Protector Read online

  There was a threat concealed in the words. ‘You almost make it sound as if I’m His Grace’s prisoner,’ he said. ‘That he has set guards about me.’

  Mr Veal bared his teeth in what was perhaps intended as a smile. ‘You’re pleased to jest, sir.’

  After dinner, Cromwell told his daughter that he wished to walk with her in the garden. The day was fine, with a foretaste of spring despite the chill in the air. The garden, which lay to one side of Mistress Dalton’s house, was not large, but its high walls made it secluded. The hedges bordering the paths were evergreen. The rest of the garden was barely awake. It was holding its breath, waiting for something to happen, just as he was.

  Elizabeth took his arm as they paced along. She looked up at him. ‘Mr Veal was here again today, sir?’

  He knew by her tone that she had sensed that something was amiss. He had not taken her fully into his confidence about the Duke. In some ways, the less she knew the better. But she was no fool, he knew; she was the most intelligent of his children, as well as his favourite.

  He said, ‘Mr Veal is our friend, so far as it goes, but the Duke is his master. You understand me? We should not trust Mr Veal entirely, any more than we should the Duke.’

  Her face was bright with understanding. ‘The Cockpit?’

  ‘They mustn’t know about that. It’s quite separate, Betty. Something for us alone.’

  He called her ‘Betty’, he realized, just as he had when she had been a little girl. He watched her rubbing her chin against the fur collar of her cloak as she considered what he had told her. It was a sensuous action, and it disquieted him. His father would not have approved of such a luxurious cloak for his granddaughter, nor of her taking such obvious pleasure in it. The trouble with having Oliver Cromwell as your grandfather, or indeed as your father, was that you could never live up to such a yardstick. Even after his death, you were condemned always to fall short.

  ‘The Duke has ordered this house to be watched.’ He saw alarm flare in his daughter’s eyes. ‘It’s for our own protection.’ He hesitated. ‘Chiefly. But it means I can’t communicate with Mr Hakesby without running the risk of his learning of it sooner or later. It’s perfectly possible that someone here is in his pay. Thomas, perhaps – I saw him talking privately to Mr Veal this morning, on his way in.’

  ‘Then has it all been in vain, sir? Our business with Mr Hakesby?’

  ‘Is there a private way you could pass a letter to him through his wife? Two women meeting, seemingly by chance, just as you did before? It might not strike anyone as worthy of note. Women are always gossiping to one another, even if they are perfect strangers.’

  Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed to slits. She puffed out her cheeks, giving her father an unwanted glimpse of the heavy-jowled woman she might become, if God spared her for another twenty years.

  Suddenly she smiled at him. ‘Aren’t some things better spoken than written?’

  He nodded, accepting the point. ‘There is another difficulty. The Duke wants me to meet some gentlemen in private.’

  ‘Will they know who you are, sir?’

  He nodded.

  ‘But surely that would be too dangerous? The news that you were here would soon spread.’

  ‘It’s not just that. He’s named Easter Monday for the meeting.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘But that’s the day that you and Mr Hakesby fixed on for the Cockpit.’

  On the morning of Palm Sunday, Mr and Mrs Hakesby walked arm-in-arm across Henrietta Street and joined the crowd of worshippers at the door of St Paul’s, Covent Garden. As they waited to enter the church, her husband pinched the fleshy underside of Cat’s forearm, making her wince.

  ‘Look at this press of people,’ he hissed. ‘I told you we should have come earlier.’

  ‘We’ll soon be inside, sir.’

  ‘The wind’s bitter. I’ll catch my death of cold beforehand.’

  At last their turn came. A verger led them with stately deliberation to the pew they rented by the quarter. (When Cat had questioned the expense of having their own pew, Hakesby had told her it was essential for him to show the world that he could afford such respectable luxuries.)

  The verger opened the door and stood aside. Her husband entered first, for he was convinced that the far end of the pew was less draughty than it was next to the aisle; and the draught set off both his ague and his rheumatism.

  While she waited, Cat glanced over her shoulder at the people entering the church behind them, her eyes flicking idly from one to another. Suddenly she stared harder at a young lady who had just come in with her maid. Cat stiffened. The lady was Elizabeth Cromwell.

  The verger coughed. ‘Mistress?’

  Elizabeth must have tipped her own verger well – he was leading her and her maid to one of the front pews on the north side of the church, an area that was not reserved for regular worshippers. Elizabeth kept her eyes cast down. She gave no sign that she had seen Cat.

  ‘Mistress?’ Cat’s verger repeated, in a louder voice. He tapped his wand against the door of the pew.

  She glanced up, irritated by this sign of impatience. ‘Don’t be impertinent,’ she said.

  He flinched from her anger. Without undue haste, she joined Hakesby in their pew. He was fussing over his cloak, wrapping it more tightly around him as a preliminary to slumber. It was a rare preacher who could keep him awake for longer than five minutes.

  Cat did not tell him that Elizabeth Cromwell was here. She could not rely on him to be discreet. She hugged the uncomfortable knowledge to herself for the next hour and a half.

  She could not have said what the sermon was about. After it was over, most of the congregation filed out of the church. Hakesby’s limbs were stiff from inactivity; he and Cat were among the last. Elizabeth Cromwell had hung back, sending her maid to look for a handkerchief she claimed to have dropped. She contrived to time her departure to match theirs, and fell in beside them in the churchyard.

  Hakesby started violently when he saw her.

  ‘Pray be calm, sir,’ Cat murmured.

  Elizabeth drew them aside, out of sight from the street. ‘Forgive me for surprising you, sir,’ she said to Hakesby. ‘I could not think how else to do it.’

  ‘Is Mr … Mr Cranmore with you?’ Hakesby asked.

  ‘He thought it safer not. And he told me not to call at your house in case they’ve bribed your porter.’

  ‘They?’ Cat said sharply. ‘What do you mean, “they”?’

  ‘My father was recognized by one of the Duke of Buckingham’s people. The Duke has been most obliging in every way. He assures us that he will keep it secret that my father’s here. But he’s set a watch on us.’

  ‘Why?’ Cat demanded.

  ‘For our own safety, I believe.’ Elizabeth bit her lip. Her face was pale and drawn, older than her years. ‘But … but my father can’t be quite sure of that. And he wishes to keep our business – yours and ours, that is – entirely separate.’ She tried to smile, but instead looked desperate; after all, for all her cunning she was very young. ‘My father’s condition is so precarious. I – I fear for him greatly.’

  At that moment Cat came closer to liking Elizabeth than she had ever done. ‘Why is the Duke kind to him?’

  ‘That’s what worries me. The Duke believes my father ordered his release from the Tower when he was Lord Protector. That’s what he says. But my father tells me that in fact he had little to do with it. And I think, if the Duke’s so grateful, why wait until now to show it, nearly ten years later, if that was really the case? God knows my father has had need of friends with deep pockets in these last few years.’

  ‘I’m cold,’ Hakesby said abruptly.

  Cat glanced about her. She felt as if a thousand eyes were watching them. But, as far as she could see, only Elizabeth’s maid was looking at them, and she was ten yards away, out of earshot. They couldn’t go back to the sign of the Rose – the porter would see them. She thought it all too likely that if anyone
had offered Pheebs a bribe, he would have taken it.

  ‘A tavern,’ she said. She looked at her husband. ‘Should we not take a coach to the Lamb? They know us there and they will always find us a room.’

  There was a hackney stand in Covent Garden and, as luck would have it, a coach was waiting for a fare. The driver grumbled at taking them so short a distance – the Lamb was in Wych Street, only a few hundred yards away – but Elizabeth surprised them all by snapping at him: ‘What’s it to you? You will have the whole shilling for it, will you not? Take us there directly or I’ll complain to the Guildhall and have them take away your licence.’

  The streets were quieter than usual because it was Sunday, and the coach took them there with barely a stop on the way. Wych Street lay north of the Strand. The Lamb itself was on the north side, set back in its own court and embracing three sides of it. It was a shabby, sagging building with mossy tiles on its roofs.

  The landlord’s boy was waiting in the doorway, and he rushed out to greet them as soon as he saw the coach. When he had helped them down, Elizabeth gave him the fare and told him to pay the driver. Afterwards Cat sent him scurrying upstairs to command a private room for them. They were given a little chamber overlooking the court, some distance from the din coming from the ordinary downstairs where men were gathering to dine at the host’s table.

  ‘Shall we dine?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘A glass of wine and a biscuit, perhaps,’ Cat said.

  ‘Perhaps you’re right – we shouldn’t linger.’

  They ordered the wine. Elizabeth told her maid to wait outside on the landing and bring it in when it arrived. When she was alone with the Hakesbys, she spread out her hands in a gesture that was part apology and part a confession of helplessness.

  ‘My father fears that one of Mistress Dalton’s servants is in the Duke’s pay,’ she said, ‘and that he also has someone outside the house to watch our comings and goings. Mr Veal comes every day, and—’

  ‘Mr Veal?’ Cat said.

  ‘Yes.’ Elizabeth glanced at her. ‘You know of him?’

  ‘Veal?’ Hakesby said, his voice quavering. ‘Who is this Veal?’

  ‘I believe he’s a clergyman, sir, who was ejected from his living,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Though you would not think so to look at him. He has a servant with him sometimes, a ruffian built like a tub of lard.’

  ‘This touches us,’ Cat said. ‘We must abandon the Cockpit business.’

  ‘No, I beg you, Catty, pray let us discuss it before we decide anything. My father cannot live on air. He is determined to have what my grandmother left for him.’

  ‘Consider: if the Duke’s people are watching your every step, for whatever reason, how can you hope to move in the matter without their knowing? And then we must be known too.’

  ‘But what if we’re discreet about our meetings? As we are now. If we take precautions, we shall be perfectly safe.’

  ‘But it isn’t—’

  ‘If the Protector wishes it,’ Hakesby interrupted, slamming the palm of his hand on the table, ‘it shall be done. Somehow we shall find a way.’

  ‘But, sir, consider how rash it would be,’ Cat said. ‘Our fortunes are precarious. We cannot take the risk.’

  Hakesby swept his hand from the table and pointed his forefinger towards her. He could not hold the finger steady. ‘We shall assist His Grace the Protector as agreed.’

  Elizabeth coughed and glanced at the door. ‘Pray, sir, lower your voice. And my father does not care to be addressed by his former style – it’s dangerous, quite apart from anything else. Perhaps you’d tell me what you learned from the man who cleans the sewers at the Cockpit.’

  The maid brought their wine and biscuits while Hakesby was giving her a rambling but essentially accurate account of the meeting with the mazer scourer. Elizabeth coaxed him when his strength showed signs of flagging, placing her hand on his arm and bringing her face very close to his so he might whisper to her. Every now and then, he would shoot a glance at Cat, as if to make sure she was witnessing this intimacy, the consequences of the triumph of his will over hers.

  She felt sick at heart, knowing that his illness must be at least part of the reason for this folly of his, that it made him unreasonable and subject to strange spurts of anger; and she also knew that she was powerless to stop him from doing what he wanted. She almost wished his ague would take a turn for the worse and confine him to bed. She could see no other way to avoid his leading them all into ruin.

  When it was over, Elizabeth sat back, smiling. She filled Hakesby’s glass and raised her own in a toast. ‘To our enterprise, sir. God send it prosper.’

  As an afterthought, she threw a smile at Cat, whom she had ignored completely while Hakesby was talking.

  ‘So it is all set for Easter Monday, then,’ Hakesby said. ‘As we had hoped. The mazer scourers will be on holiday, and many of the other servants too.’

  ‘Pray God the Duke of Albemarle is down in the country,’ Elizabeth said, ‘and not in the Cockpit lodgings. And this man Reeves will play his part?’

  ‘Yes. There will be no difficulty.’

  ‘I’m afraid there’s one difficulty,’ Elizabeth said. ‘On Friday, Mr Veal told my father that the Duke wants him at Wallingford House on Easter Monday, to meet some friends. Which means he may not be able to come to the Cockpit with us.’

  ‘Us?’ Cat said. ‘Us?’

  ‘I’m sure we shall contrive it by ourselves.’ Elizabeth turned back to Hakesby. ‘By the way, I have some money. My father gave me it for you to defray the costs.’ She glanced sideways at them through narrowed eyes. ‘The Duke has given him a little. He has his uses, you see.’

  It was the smugness of Elizabeth’s tone that did it. Cat’s patience with them both vanished as abruptly as a crack of thunder. ‘Listen to yourselves,’ she said. ‘You’ve both run stark mad.’

  Her husband and Elizabeth Cromwell stared at her.

  ‘By God, you will ruin us all,’ Cat said.

  It was past the dinner hour when the Hakesbys returned to the sign of the Rose. Their food, sent up from the cook shop, was tepid, the sauces congealing in their dishes. Hakesby blamed Jane for failing to keep it warm. He reduced the maid to tears and threw a plate at her. The plate fell short, but Jane scuttled out of the room, leaving her employers to serve themselves.

  ‘I shall beat the girl after dinner,’ Hakesby said.

  He fell upon the food, eating rapidly as if his life depended on it. There was no conversation. Cat was furious with her husband for indulging in such folly with the Cromwells, and he was furious with her for crossing him so openly at the Lamb. Old men have their pride. She lacked the diplomatic art of persuading another to act as you wished, while believing the choice was theirs.

  She ate mechanically. It seemed to her that they were surrounded by a close-set hedge of thorns, and they ran the risk of impaling themselves if they moved in any direction. Perhaps she should go to Marwood. She did not want to see Marwood, and it galled her that she should even consider approaching him, given his churlish behaviour earlier. Besides, she could hardly tell him everything without running the risk of incriminating them all, the Hakesbys as well as the Cromwells. At best, she thought, he would tell her that her difficulties were none of his business.

  But if she didn’t go to Marwood for advice, who else was there?

  It was raining when Cat left the sign of the Rose. Her husband was sleeping in the chair by the fire, having forgotten his threat to beat poor Jane.

  She hurried east through Covent Garden and cut down Drury Lane to the Strand. She wore her old winter cloak, which had a hood. Hakesby did not like her to wear it in public, saying that its shabbiness demeaned him and it was a poor advertisement of their standing in the world. Her hand was in her pocket, gripping the handle of the little knife she always carried there.

  She crossed the road and went directly down to the Savoy. As she passed under the gateway, the smell of the river gre
w noticeably stronger, the watery stench of mud, salt and sewage. Infirmary Close was near the graveyard, where the plague victims lay uneasily. Changes in the weather made the few inches of earth that covered them ripple like a blanket over unquiet sleepers. How could Marwood bear to live in a place like this, with the dead as his nearest neighbours?

  A narrow alley led down to the door of his lodging. She stopped outside to catch her breath. She almost hoped he would not be there. She raised her hand to knock. In the same moment there was a scrape of a bolt on the other side of the door, and it opened. There was Sam Witherdine, Marwood’s manservant if you could call him that, leaning on his crutch and smiling at her.

  ‘Mistress Hakesby, as I live! Margaret thought she saw you through the pantry window. Come inside and dry yourself by the fire, and I’ll tell master you’re here.’

  The Witherdines, Sam and Margaret, had always liked Cat. She accepted this as she accepted the weather, as something that had little to do with her personally. They treated her with more respect than they did their own master, the man who had paid their debts, put a roof over their head and filled their bellies. The undeserved esteem dated from nearly a year earlier, when Cat had stayed in this house and helped to nurse Marwood after he had been so badly burned.

  Sam showed her into the parlour. He set Stephen, the boy who helped in the kitchen, to breaking open the fire and raking the coals into flame. Margaret came up from the kitchen and removed Cat’s cloak, saying she would hang it by the kitchen fire to dry. She told Stephen to look sharp and fetch the master; he was in his closet, writing letters, and had given orders not to be disturbed but that did not apply to Mistress Hakesby.

  A few minutes later, Marwood himself appeared. He was wrapped in his gown and wearing the cap he wore about the house. The scarring on the left side of his face and neck was clearly visible. He had not troubled to make an effort for her. He was also, she sensed, in a foul temper.