Bloods revolution, p.24
Blood's Revolution, page 24
Lord Danby had no answer to his own questions. But that odd young officer would be one to watch when the time came. Which way would he jump?
Danby picked up the letter again. It was not the first communication of this nature that he had indulged in with The Hague, with the ministers and servants of Prince William. He and several other prominent Englishmen, lords, bishops, Army officers, even some local landowners and Justices of the Peace, had been writing and receiving letters from Holland for months. But this was the first explicit, formal, written invitation for a foreign army to invade these shores. If this letter were to fall into the wrong hands, Lord Danby, for all his wealth and titles, would be tried, found guilty, and beheaded like poor Monmouth. It was, then, appropriate that he should consider long and hard before adding his signature to the bottom of the page.
He looked at the other names listed, powerful men, all committed to the Protestant cause. All swearing loyalty to William and beseeching him to come over and save them from the tyranny of a Catholic succession: the Earl of Shrewsbury, the Earl of Devonshire, the Viscount Lumley, the Bishop of London, Lord Russell, a naval captain and son of the Earl of Bedford, and Henry Sydney, the son of the Earl of Leicester, a friend and confidante of Prince William, and the man who, with considerable urging from Lord Danby, had actually written this treasonous letter.
A Rubicon, then. And one that had to be crossed.
Lord Danby dipped his quill in the pot, shook off the excess ink and signed his name at the bottom of the letter below the others, with a flourish. If he dispatched it this night, it could be in Holland, in Prince William’s hands, within three, four days.
‘Alea iacta est,’ he muttered as he shook a fine sand over the fresh ink.
Chapter Twenty-eight
27 June 1688: Palace of White Hall
‘You say these men, this gang of criminals from the Liberty of the Savoy, broke into your house in Mincing Lane, in the dead of night, in an attempt to murder you and your wife in your bed, have I got this right?’ The King’s tone was incredulous.
It did sound a little fanciful, when put like this, Holcroft realised, but it was the truth. There was no other way to tell it.
‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ he said, looking at his shabby shoes.
‘And you, and your comrades, a veteran master gunner of the Ordnance and a sergeant of my Royal Fusiliers, lay in wait for these villains and, when they broke in, you killed half a dozen and wounded many others before they ran off into the night.’
‘Exactly as you say, Your Majesty.’
‘Well, the question I have for you, Lieutenant Blood, is . . . why? Why should these cut-throats be so keen to murder you? Why – or rather how – did you know that they would be coming for you that night, so that you could lay your murderous trap? I feel there is something vital that you are not telling me. What have you to say, sir?’
This was the question Holcroft had been dreading.
‘The man behind the attack is, I believe, a Frenchman, an agent of France. He and I have, ah, crossed paths before, in France, while I was . . . while I was living there, serving in His Most Christian Majesty’s Corps d’Artillerie. I knew he was in London and I suspected that because of our long enmity he might seek to harm me.’
‘That is not an answer. That just raises a host of more questions.’
The Earl of Sunderland stepped forward, and leant in to the King to whisper at some length in his right ear.
‘Indeed?’ said the King. ‘So you were in the . . . ah . . . service of my late brother Charles, as well as in the Sun King’s service.’
Holcroft said nothing. He felt a furious anger at his secret past being bandied about in this indiscreet manner. He looked about the Red Audience Room, and noted that the French Ambassador and his coterie of hangers-on were at the far end of the room talking to Jack Churchill. And, he very much hoped, out of earshot. Not that it mattered. He was thoroughly blown on as an agent. If he ever went back to France, he would almost certainly be arrested and shot as a spy.
He had been summoned by the King after the night of carnage in Mincing Lane had become common knowledge. There had been no way to keep a noisy gun battle in a small London street in the middle of the night a secret for very long, not to mention all the blood and the dead bodies. The neighbours, in their night shirts and caps, had swarmed over the street outside the house within minutes of the attackers’ departure, the local constables had been summoned. Sir Henry Firebrace, one of the two sheriffs of London, had arrived the next day and ordered Holcroft to explain himself or face imprisonment and trial. Naturally the King was told of it, too.
And now, eleven days after the battle, Holcroft found himself in the Red Audience Room in the sprawling royal apartments in White Hall, trying to answer his sovereign’s questions satisfactorily without mentioning that he believed that the man behind the attack might possibly have substituted a Savoy whore’s child for the Prince of Wales, the much-celebrated heir to the thrones of the Three Kingdoms.
‘So you are claiming that this is a private feud between spies?’
Holcroft was close to losing his temper. ‘I am saying, Your Majesty, that I was attacked in my home by a number of men, criminals and thieves from the Liberty of the Savoy, who serve a French master, and that I defended myself and my home with an appropriate amount of force. I also humbly request that I be allowed to take a force of armed men, Royal Fusiliers, into the Savoy to seek out the man behind this attack and bring him to justice. I did, in fact, send a note to Lord Sunderland about this matter some months ago, alerting him that a French agent was operating here under our noses. I received no reply. I understand no action was taken at the time.’
‘Is this correct, Sunderland?’
‘I received a rather odd note from Lieutenant Blood at Christmastide ranting about Catholics in the Savoy, something to do with Father Palmer’s free school.’
The King frowned. ‘I will not have them molested. No, sir, no Lieutenant Blood. You may not take my soldiers into the Savoy to harass this free school and the good Fathers who teach the poor there. I have given them a special licence to practice their religion freely and I have had enough of my Catholic subjects being hounded for their faith. No, sir. You shall leave them be. Lord Sunderland and his officers will make the appropriate inquiries into this matter.’
Holcroft said nothing.
The King let out a breath. ‘However, I shall dismiss the charges of affray against you, Lieutenant Blood, and your men, as it seems that you were merely protecting yourself. But I doubt that this French spy, if he is even still in London, will trouble you after you massacred so many of his men: what was it? Seven killed.’
‘Six, Your Majesty, and one innocent boy – from the free school.’
‘Be that as it may. I think your shadowy Frenchman will have learnt not to disturb you in your dwelling again. That is all. You have my leave to retire, sir.’
Holcroft made his bow and retreated from the throne, leaving Sunderland and the King in earnest conversation. He was halfway down the room, almost at the big double doors, with the footmen preparing to open them, when Jack stopped him.
‘You are unhurt, Hol, yes? And Elizabeth too?’ he said, looking concerned. ‘I heard about the bloody business at your home. Sarah and I were shocked. If you like, I can give you a file of redcoats to keep watch on the house. Unofficially, of course.’
‘Thank you, Jack, but there is no need,’ said Holcroft. He was still fuming at the stupidity of the King and his chief minister. ‘I have moved Elizabeth and the servants into my old quarters in the Tower. We’ll be staying there for the time being – and we will be safe, I think. Jackson and Miller will continue to watch over me, too.’
Before Jack could reply, Henri d’Erloncourt’s face appeared at his left shoulder.
‘My dear Holcroft, I am appalled, quite appalled at this outrage. You must be shocked to the very core by this gross barbarity. How are you nerves, my dear?’
‘I am well, thank you, Henri,’ said Holcroft wearily. ‘This is not the first time someone has discharged a pistol at me.’
‘But in the sanctity of your home, your hearth, it is all quite, quite . . . monstrous. Do you have any idea who could have perpetrated this foul crime?’
Holcroft looked at Henri D’Erloncourt; his long pointed nose was almost twitching with excitement, his brown eyes were darting all over, seemingly trying to assure himself that his old friend was unharmed. To Holcroft, he resembled even more than usual a young fox, sniffing the wind, scenting for danger.
‘We know they came from the Liberty of the Savoy. But not much more. My Lord Sunderland is going to make some further inquiries,’ he said. ‘And now if you will forgive me, I must get back to the Tower, my duties call . . .’
‘Of course, of course. You must be terribly shaken. But you can tell me all about it, every sword blow and pistol shot, every gout of red gore, on Sunday.’
‘On Sunday?’ said Holcroft.
‘Yes, Sunday, the first of July, I think we said. You are dining with me here in my White Hall apartments. Your lovely wife Elizabeth arranged everything. Surely you have not already forgotten?’
‘Ah, no, of course I hadn’t forgotten,’ Holcroft lied. ‘Till Sunday, then.’
And with a vague sense of approaching doom, he made his farewells and left.
Chapter Twenty-nine
28 June 1688: Tower of London
This might well be considered theft, and Holcroft knew it. In one sense he was no better than Captain Glanville and all those others who robbed the King with their petty peculations and false musters. One the other hand, it was only food and drink set out for the officers’ dinner, fare that he might have eaten himself if he were hungry. And if he did not take it, the cooks and the mess staff would have disposed of it themselves, sold it, eaten it or taken it home to their families.
Well, he was doing this anyway – theft or no. He shoved the roasted chicken into the sack, and followed it with a loaf of fresh bread and a couple of apples. He put a silver half crown on the sideboard that held the remains of the dinner, mainly as a salve for his conscience, swung the sack over his shoulder and, seizing a bottle of brandy decanted from the barrel, walked out of the mess and headed across the Inner Ward towards the White Tower.
A few minutes later he was sitting in a small, dank cell with his friend Peter Mews, the Bishop of Winchester, unpacking the meal and setting it out on the prelate’s table. This ground-floor cell was a far cry from the spacious one on the second storey where his father had been held, it was cramped and damp, no fireplace, and only one tiny window, high up on the left side, that let in a thin beam of afternoon sunlight from the warm late-June day outside. But these miserable conditions did not seem to depress the spirits of the cells’ elderly occupant.
‘How perfectly splendid! May God shower His blessings upon you, Holcroft Blood,’ said Peter Mews, tearing off a chicken leg and attacking it with his teeth. ‘The food in this ancient stronghold has been, up until this point, execrable,’ he said with a full mouth. ‘Your man Widdicombe serves us nothing but slop and sour ale twice a day and I cannot bring myself to put silver in that venal old homunculus’s pocket for better fare.’
Holcroft poured himself a glass of brandy, and sat back in the cell’s only chair. The bishop sat on his narrow cot, squeezed in on the other side of the table, such were the chamber’s meagre dimensions.
‘Are you keeping well, my lord? No gaol fever, no chills?’
‘I’m splendid, thank you. Fit as a fiddle. Never better.’
Holcroft speculated how an inanimate wooden musical instrument could be either fit or unfit. But he said nothing. The bishop was evidently in good health.
‘What news of the trial?’ he asked the older man.
‘We go before the Lords tomorrow, I’m told, a full session. And I think it likely that we shall be exonerated in short order. Seditious libel – it’s a ridiculous charge. Everyone recognizes it. The Lords are with us, the Church is united, in fact, the whole country is behind us. The King has overreached himself and will be sorely humiliated, I believe. I and my fellow bishops will be free men within the week.’
‘Will the King act against you once you are free, do you think?’
‘No-oo, I doubt it. James has behaved very badly – and he knows it. Did you hear that there were angry mobs out all across London when they took us into custody? Chanting terrible things about the Pope. Blackguarding the King and his ministers. Behaving disgracefully, I must admit. But it is gratifying to feel we have the support of the common people. The trial will be the end of this business, you mark my words, Holcroft. James has got bigger concerns than a few contumelious priests. You’ll have heard the news about the Dutchman, William of Orange.’
‘What about him?’
‘Really? I am surprised, the Tower is such a splendid anthill of gossip. I should have thought you would have heard days before me. I had it from Widdicombe, he came round here trying to ingratiate himself, greasy little monkey – didn’t think to feed me proper victuals but he was quick indeed to share his apocalyptic news.’
‘I have been somewhat caught up in my own affairs,’ said Holcroft. Indeed, he had been too busy for gossip and he had chosen not to mix much with the other officers in the Tower since his return from Hull. Captain William Glanville had been recalled from Sheerness, he had heard, and Holcroft was hoping to avoid another disastrous confrontation. He had also quarrelled with Lord Dartmouth, who told him to stop badgering him about the corruption report he had written while in Yorkshire. On top of that, he had had his hands full settling Elizabeth and her maid – the cook had been dismissed – into the tiny Tower quarters he’d occupied before marriage.
‘It seems that Dutch William is preparing for war. He seeks to invade us,’ said the bishop, without seeming alarmed at this information. ‘He is gathering ships and men at Hellevoetsluis and he is planning to come over here at the end of the summer, or in early autumn, before the seas become too dangerous. Apparently, he has been invited by several high-ranking noblemen to take the throne.’
‘No! Do you believe that is true?’
‘I have no idea. Probably not. But it is something to occupy the mind of our dear old sovereign, and with luck he will leave his bishops alone for a little while.’
‘I am pleased that you will be getting out soon,’ said Holcroft.
‘So am I. But enough about this old fool. I heard that you faced down a marauding army of Savoyard villains who attacked your home. I heard you defeated them and caused much righteous slaughter of the paynim. Is it true? Excellent!’
Holcroft didn’t care for the relish that the bishop showed for the murderous affair in Mincing Lane. But he admitted that it was true and gave a brief account.
‘I’ve had to move my wife here for safety,’ he said sadly. ‘She follows me during the day, when I am about my duties, asking questions in her, well, in her rather carrying voice. It is distracting and un-officer-like. I suspect the men have been laughing about it behind my back. I have begged her to keep to our rooms but she says she gets bored with nothing to occupy her and she wants to learn about my Ordnance duties. She says she wants to get to know me and my work better.’
‘Did she really?’
‘Yes, I thought she might be interested in the guns because, well, because I love them so. I took her to the armoury yard and had the cannon wheeled out. I showed her the biggest one, Joshua’s Trumpet, the great thirty-six pounder, you should see it my lord, it’s a magnificent beast – bigger than anything you would have used in all the wars against Parliament. I took her over to the Demi-Culverins, Screaming Sally, Chained Lighting, Lawful Murder and all the rest. I even showed her Roaring Meg, of course, and explained that she had fought nobly in the late civil wars and that she had once been commanded by a future bishop of the Church of England. Which would be you, my lord.’
‘Thank you, I did manage to guess. So, what did she say? Was she struck dumb with amazement at this display of military marvels?’
‘No, not at all. Strangely. She said she found guns boring. Boring! As if anyone could find cannon dull. It’s inexplicable. To make it more interesting, I explained to her in great detail their respective weights, the charges of powder they each took, the size of ball, the amount of windage each could tolerate, the number of horses required to pull the gun carriage. She actually yawned! I was taken aback. I make no claim to understanding the minds of young ladies but I was astonished by her indifference. Frankly, my lord, I don’t know what to do with her. I’m at my wits’ end.’
‘These things are sent to try us,’ said the bishop. ‘You could send her away. Or do you think she would still be in danger from these murderous Savoyards?’
‘There is still a danger, yes. And she must stay here for the time being. But that is one of the reasons why I wanted to come and see you, in fact . . .’
‘Do go on, my dear boy, if I can be of any service at all . . .’
‘You studied at the University in Oxford, isn’t that right, my lord? You studied literature, poetry, verse and so on? Perhaps some French writers, as well as English?’
‘It was many years ago now, but yes, St John’s College. I read a good deal back then. I also continued my studies for some years in Paris after the wars were over.’
‘I am trying to find out the identity of the man behind the attacks on me and my household. I am persuaded that he is a Frenchman, an intelligence agent, known only by the codename Narrey. However, I did receive an indication of his true name. A man in Paris, an agent of the English Crown, was murdered by him. Poison, it seems. And with his final breath he said that the French spy’s identity could be found in verse. It is not very much to go on but I wondered if there were any French spies or intelligencers who could be found in French poetry, or in a famous play perhaps.’
