Treason's Daughter (8 page)

The opening of the new parliament, and the existence of The Object, both combine to leave her father in a cheerier mood. The king is bound over, this time, to listen to the country's grievances; the terms of the treaty with the Scots demand it. The prospect of a resolution to the political crisis is lubricating the City's credit channels. The Exchange reverberates with a new, brash optimism. The City's swagger is seeping back, and with that comes the promise of profits.

Challoner invites Ned round for his Sunday meal. Will is there too, unusually silent. He drums out a quiet tattoo on the table, occasionally lifting his face to smile at Hen. In the seconds before she looks away, she registers yet again how she likes the way he smiles; the way his eyes crinkle and he tilts his head to one side.

Ned and his father manage to be amicable. Both approve of Charles' decision to forgo a ceremony this time, and slip into Westminster to meet the MPs. Hen watches her father's jaw clench when Ned talks of the new religious settlement this parliament could bring. He catches her eye then, and she tries to throw a mute appeal at him to be kind. He nods, almost imperceptibly, and lets the building tension deflate. Ned, in his turn, manages to last the whole meal without quoting Gouge.

The two men find, to their evident pleasure, that there is much that unites them in the discussion about the fiscal grievances. Ned nods vigorously at his father's summation of Charles' financial mismanagement, that the measures used to raise revenue during the personal rule are an abuse of royal prerogative. It is fertile ground in which to find agreement; a man would have to be mad to love ship money or the tonnage and poundage tax; a lunatic to think the king in the right in his demands for a forced loan from the City. They agree, too, that all men must hope for the removal of Strafford, the king's closest adviser. Laud's name is not mentioned; both are aware that it could spark something vicious.

Will tells them that there is talk, around the law courts, of bringing Strafford to trial. ‘There is call for him to be impeached, sir,' he says to Challoner.

‘On what grounds?'

‘Treason. They say that in his days in charge of Ireland, he grew too close to the papists among the soldiery, and that he advised the king that the army in Ireland could be used against his opponents in England, as well as the Scots.'

‘The devil,' says Ned.

‘And did he?' asks Challoner.

Will shrugs. ‘Does it matter?'

‘How can you say that?' bursts Ned.

‘Ned,' says Hen, ‘Mr Johnson means it does not matter if it is true – it's just a ruse to winkle him out from under the king's protection.'

Ned looks put out at being contradicted, and she has to work at coaxing him back into a better humour. At last, it works. Ned
tells them of a sermon he has read about, preached in the new parliament.

‘“These are the days of shaking,” said the minister. “And the shaking is universal.”'

They nod, Ned and his father.

‘Across the Channel, too,' says Challoner. ‘Still all on fire across the Continent.'

‘It is too much to expect, that such a violent wrench from Rome could settle quickly,' says Will.

‘Aye, and men must fight for their faith, or they are no men at all,' says Ned.

His father looks at him, something unreadable in his eyes.

‘Why do we always have to talk of fighting?' says Hen, anxiety colouring her tone. It's Will she's looking at, not her brother.

Her father's thoughtful gaze flits between the three of them.

Afterwards, when Will and Ned have set off into the darkness, Challoner takes her to one side, gripping her arm and pulling her close to him.

‘Henrietta, darling child,' he says, pushing her hair back from her face. He looks full into her eyes, and she turns away, knowing what is coming.

He is merciless. ‘You know Will is the son of a country parson? You know his father has a brood of children – girls at that – and no money? You know that it will take him ten years, or more, to establish himself and start to make sufficient money to keep a household? You know that Will's head is so full of stars that the law
has trouble gaining any purchase? You know that I have wealth, but not enough to divert too much away from the business if Ned is to inherit a manageable concern? And then there is Sam. You know then, Henrietta, that it is impossible?'

She pulls herself away, feigning hauteur because she doesn't know how else to react. ‘I do not know, Father, what you are talking about. I have done nothing to make you talk like this.'

Now, she thinks, I must flounce out, because that is what I should do. So she flounces, and Challoner watches her go, and in the empty room his usual expression of sardonic amusement is replaced by something naked and sad.

CHAPTER SIX

Summer 1641

H
ENRIETTA AND WILL ARE SITTING UNDER A TREE IN ST PAUL'S
churchyard, watching the booksellers rush to cover their wares from the light rain, which has just sprung, unexpectedly, from a blue spring sky.

They meet here, accidentally, every Wednesday at noon – an unacknowledged custom that started as a genuine accident and is now the centrepoint of Hen's week. Twelve noon on a Wednesday is her sun, the exact mid-point round which her life orbits. She has become adept at telling herself lies of omission. It is coincidence, happenchance, that brings them both there, once a week, just as the bells ring out twelve.

Nurse knows, Hen suspects. She looks her up and down on a Wednesday morning, noticing the unusual care that Hen has taken with her dress, noting the girl's desperate attempts at nonchalance. There is the quiver of a smirk around her mouth, something more than her typical facetiousness in the way she speaks to her former charge. Yet she has not told. Is she mellowing,
Nurse, or just plotting? Hen decides to make no decision on this conundrum. Besides, the meetings are accidental, are they not?

They start the meetings with a lone browsing of books. Then she senses his presence, hovering somewhere behind her. A diffident cough, and she turns, a smile ready-formed on her face.

‘Mr Johnson!' she says, as she drops into a curtsy. ‘How lovely to meet you.'

Then they must discuss whatever book she is holding, which may or may not end up on her father's account. Mr Rowan, her father's bookseller, is a distracted, amiable man. He is indulgent of her learning, and if he notices Will's habitual presence, he does not register it.

After the book comes a companionable walk, strolling aimlessly around the churchyard, with a week's worth of observations and trivialities to keep the conversation light and amiable.

This time, with the rain pattering on the leaves, and a few stubborn drops falling unheeded on their heads, they talk, as everyone around them must, of the trial of Strafford. Some pretty manoeuvering by his enemies in Parliament has brought the king's favourite counsellor to the law courts, and to trial.

It is the great entertainment of the day, the slow hunting down of Strafford by the godly in the lower and upper houses. Londoners watch him writhe and turn, relishing each twist in the tale.

Treason, pronounce his many enemies with passion. The moderates query the charge in quieter voices than those that lay them. Treason? When he was obeying the explicit orders of the king?

‘I saw his face, Miss Challoner, as they led him to the court. A black face. I understand why he frightened people. But he is brave and defiant.'

‘Father says, and he got it from his friend close to the queen's faction, that the king is stricken with grief over it all. He twists like an eel, but every turn gets him closer to agreeing to Strafford's death.'

‘Aye. But what choice does he have? The mob in the street, the Commons and sufficient peers are ranged against him.'

‘He should stand by his friend and counsellor. No matter that Stafford is in the wrong, he deserves the king's protection,' says Hen.

Talking so baldly has one delicious side effect: they must whisper, and move their heads closer to one another. She watches his lips as he replies, and feels a churning warmth in her belly and loins that she does not entirely understand. It surges powerfully, and she fights it to concentrate on his words.

‘Nonetheless. He still stands where he did when Parliament was called. Poor, besieged and increasingly desperate. All the world knows it is a show trial, with jumped-up charges. They plan to use an attainder to kill a man; it is scarce legal. King Pym rails against Star Chamber abuses, and he uses Parliament's prerogatives to kill a man with dubious legality. And look at you, nervous, looking over your shoulder as I say it.'

She nods, admitting her twitchiness. He puts his hand over hers, and it rests there. The fire in her belly surges again.

‘My father was spat at in the street because he was heard saying as much, too loudly,' she says. ‘And what next. I wonder?'

‘The Lord knows.' He squeezes her hand, as if to reassure her. ‘Once,' he says, ‘I saw a mastiff backed into a corner by a group of boys. They had sticks and they beat him, and they thought themselves men. Until, at last, he turned and sprang. Grabbed
one by the throat, though he knew it would bring a shower of sticks. He had no choice.'

‘My father thinks on similar lines. He says we must give the king space to be king.'

They are silent a time, neither acknowledging his hand lying lightly on hers. A raven hops up to their feet and cocks his head on one side, as if he is watching them.

Declare yourself, she thinks. Tell me. Why is your hand there? What do you want of me? Tell me, Will, my heart.

She says, her voice level: ‘Father says, too, that Strafford's trial shows the danger of where we are now. On this, the MPs have pushed and pushed. If they fail now, Strafford will return, looking for vengeance. A mad bull, escaped from a net, will turn on his captors. Father worries that we are reaching that place where the reformer MPs and their friends in the City are in too deep in their pursuit of the grievances; that if they stop now, the king will find his revenge. They must tame him before they can be safe.'

‘But if they carry on, he will have more to revenge when at last they do stop. Which they must. Surely.'

‘Perhaps some impossible things stretch endlessly on. Or perhaps someone will die, or something will change, and what seemed hopeless will become infinitely possible.'

‘Perhaps.' He turns to her, and holds her hand more tightly.

She is dizzy. This is it, she thinks. It is coming, at last, and his now familiar face turns hazy in front of her.

‘Henrietta,' he says, and all the tenderness she hopes for is contained in that one word.

Suddenly, there is screaming. The raven flies away, squawking, and Will and Hen turn to face the churchyard, to find a tableau
of listening. The screams are loud, insistent. Heads turn this way and that to find the source. Hen feels the panic rising in her throat like bile. Will holds her hand tightly now as they wait to see what is happening. A band of men stalk past, grim-faced and purposeful. They carry cudgels and knives, improvised weapons of all variety.

One of their number shouts the news: ‘A papist plot! A papist plot! The whore of Babylon has sent the demons. The country will burn!' He roars again. ‘Burn!'

His call sets up a wailing and a chattering in the courtyard. There is bustle and panic now, where before there was all ordinariness. How quickly things can fall apart, Hen thinks, as Will pulls her to her feet.

‘Come,' he says. ‘I will see you home.'

They find the easiest way is to follow the band as it stalks down Ludgate Hill, gathering followers like a snowball, as the men in front cry the news. ‘To Westminster to defend our church! A papist plot, a papist plot! Arm yourselves.'

The ragtag band swells as men spill out of shops, grabbing whatever weapons they can find, arming themselves with shouts and warlike cries. There are men of all hue here, from the prosperous to the ragged. Following in its wake, Hen and Will are close enough to feel the excitement growing like a living thing. The crowd spreads panic as it goes, as if a lion were set loose from the Tower. People scatter in front of it; the traffic on Fleet Street pulls to the side.

‘Burn the papists! Burn them! Burn! Burn! Burn! Burn!'

Hen is caught in the living crowd's embrace now. She feels her heart thump with its shout: ‘Burn! Burn! Burn!'

The fire pulses in her veins, mingling with the Will-heat from earlier. She feels invincible, alive. She wants to shout with it, become one with the crowd. She opens her mouth to shout, to let the fire in her blood join the crowd's rage. As she begins her call, she turns to Will and sees his face, grim-set and scornful. It is as if he is standing steadfast on one bank of a raging river, and she is on the other, caught up in the caterwauling.

With a terrible effort she closes her mouth and wrenches herself away from it. ‘Burn! Burn!' it screams around her, as if at a distance now.

Will nudges her sideways into Fetter Lane, and she sees her familiar front door. As the fire leaks out of her and the shouts recede, she feels flat, and somehow ashamed.

‘Henrietta,' says Will, ‘are you well?'

She shakes her head. He pulls her into the alleyway beside the house, the one where Cesario and Sebastian jump down for their nightly jaunts. He puts his arms round her and holds her, his hand stroking her hair. She realizes that he thinks she is afraid.

She pulls back to tell him otherwise, pausing as she notices how close they are, how entwined. And suddenly they are kissing; her arms wrapped round his back, his beard tickling her chin, and the fire back in her body with such a surge that she would fall if he were not holding her upright. They pull back, breathless and awed by what they have discovered.

‘Oh my darling,' he murmurs. ‘Oh my angel.'

And she loses herself in kissing him again. Somewhere above her she hears the scrape of a window, and she pulls away again, looking up. No one.

‘I should go,' she says.

‘Next Wednesday?' he asks, breaking the unwritten rule.

She raises a hand to his cheek. Decide. Now.

‘Yes,' she says. ‘Next Wednesday.'

Later, Hen lies in a dream-haze. She lives the day again and again, trying to sear it on her memory. She tells herself the story of their meeting, over and over. Then she tries the images without words. A series of tableaux, in each Will's face more idealized than in the last.

Challoner stalks into the room.

‘Fucking buffoons,' he shouts.

‘Hello, Father,' she says.

‘God's blood but they should hang the lot. String 'em up, dangle 'em, and see how damned brave they are when their legs dangle in air.'

‘The cutlers, Father? Your vintner?'

‘No, not the damned cutlers. Oh, very funny, puss. Another damned riot. This time, would you credit it, a papist plot was apparently brewing. So they abandon their work, the lot of them, as if the City were not already mired in the shit, and march to Westminster. To break things, and shout of burning, and threaten the poor old bishops again.'

‘And was there a plot?'

‘Of course not. Fucking simpletons. Why does a fondness for altar rails and a Romish wife make the king a papist? Hey? Why does the existence of bishops, who are part and parcel of our church, make papists of all who are not canting, godly buffoons?
They lump us all together, Hen, like a blasted suet pudding. I think Arminius had a point, therefore I am a papist. Laud thinks the Church should be an arm of the state, and that somehow makes him suckle at the Pope's teat?'

‘You do the same, Father. You lump the godly together. You tar Ned with the same brush as Praise-God Barbon, and the tub-preachers. You admit to no shades of opinion within their ranks either.'

He stops his furious pacing of the room and stares at her. ‘Stop being right all the time, miss. It ain't attractive in a woman. It's priggish.'

‘Sorry, Father,' she says with exaggerated meekness, and earns a laugh.

‘Did you hear what Barebones Barbon called his son, Hen?'

‘No,' she says, smiling in anticipation.

‘The little boy, a fat little thing, all ordinariness, labours under the name If-Jesus-hadst-not-died-for-thy-sins-thou-hadst-been-damned-Barbon. His mother, I'm told, calls him Nicholas in secret.'

She laughs with him, and the first taste of a soon-to-be-familiar guilt tugs at Hen's heart. She has a secret now, from her beloved father. And she hugs that secret, and the guilt, close to her.

The year ripens, and Hen's life is punctuated by her encounters with Will. Strafford's execution, and the rumours of the king's plots with loyal militia to control Parliament, barely register with her. Instead, there are Wednesdays in the shadows of St Paul's
great spire. He looks at her with angel eyes that seem to pierce her skin. Now they have declared themselves to each other, she remembers her awkwardness as if it belonged to someone else. She is light in his presence, so light it feels as if only custom and habit keep her pinioned to the floor. The merest breath of wind and she would swoop skywards with the swallows, skimming the dean's chimney, circling the spire, weightless and gleeful.