The King's Exile (Thomas Hill Trilogy 2) (4 page)

THE HOUSE AT
the river end of Seething Lane, outside which the black carriage drew up, had been built by a prosperous merchant in the shadow of the Tower of London eighty years earlier. Like its neighbours, it was half-timbered, with an upper storey overhanging the lane and a roof thatched with straw. The windows were shuttered and the house was dark. The carriage was emblazoned with the monogram TR in gold lettering. It was driven by a liveried coachman and drawn by two fine greys.

The cobbled lane was narrow and foul. A stinking drain ran down one side towards Tower Hill and rats scampered about in search of scraps. Despite a warm late April sun, it was a dank place, nasty and inhospitable.

The man who emerged from the carriage was also dressed in black. He barked an order to the coachman. ‘Return in fifteen minutes exactly. I shall be watching for you.’ And without waiting for a reply, he rapped on the door with a silver-topped cane and was immediately admitted.

He was shown in by a steward. ‘Good evening, sir. May I take your hat and cane? The master is waiting for you in his living room.’

‘I’ll keep the cane,’ snapped the visitor, handing the steward his hat. He knew where the living room was and went in without knocking. The man he had come to see was no less than fifty, grey-haired and thin-faced. He was sitting by the fire with a glass of wine in his hand. He did not rise to greet his visitor, nor did he offer refreshment. This meeting would, like their previous meetings, be brief and businesslike. The visitor seated himself on a high-backed chair on the other side of the fire. For all the filth of the lane, the room was warm and comfortable. The visitor was first to speak. ‘Can you do it?’ he asked.

‘It can be done. At a price.’

‘What price?’ The old man mentioned a figure. ‘Absurd. I could get it done for half that.’

‘You know my work to be excellent. And the job carries a high risk.’

‘The country is still at war. There is risk in walking down the street. I will pay you half that.’

For ten minutes they argued over the price. When a figure had been agreed, the visitor rose and left. ‘I will return in one month. Have everything ready then,’ he said as he opened the door to let himself out.

‘It will be ready.’

The carriage had returned as instructed. He climbed in and settled back into a padded seat. Black velvet curtains hung over the side openings to protect him from curious eyes. He smiled. He was as he preferred to be – alone, invisible, in control. Let Fairfax and Cromwell and their like worry about their royal prisoner and
his misguided Welsh and Scottish allies. Let Parliament carry the burden of governing this enfeebled country. Let Puritans rant and Catholics cower. From the shadows, he would observe and calculate, take his opportunities and accumulate power through wealth. For once, the jarring of the carriage wheels over the cobbles did not discomfort him or affect his mood. Wealth, power, and now revenge. Who could ask for more?

The war, like all wars, had brought the opportunities he sought and in the four and a half years since escaping, just, from Oxford he had been clever enough to see them and bold enough to grasp them. Others had done the same but none had prospered more than he had. When, three years ago, a poor harvest had pushed up the price of grain he had bought as much as he could and been rewarded by a second poor crop which increased the price even more. Soldiers had to eat and he had no difficulty in selling all the grain he had, even the old, rotten stuff, at three times what he paid for it.

After Fairfax and Cromwell routed Prince Rupert and the Royalists at Marston Moor in the summer of 1644, he had secured a contract to supply their pikemen with the thick woollen jackets they wore under their breastplates. Having established a price based on the current price of wool he drove his costs down by making promises to the wool merchants which he did not keep and disposing of those merchants unwise enough to complain. He did the same with the red dye needed for the jackets. Then he bribed his way to a similar contract for the supply of blue coats to the prince’s regiments, taking care to add a few extra pence to the price. At Naseby a year later both sides in the battle wore coats supplied by him.

And after Cromwell’s crushing victory he had paid his own
army of boys to search the battlefield before any other scavengers arrived and to bring him every musket, pistol and sword they could find. He sold the weapons to the quartermasters of both sides at half the price of new ones. Much of the profit from ventures such as these he had used to buy land in and around London. Now he was wealthy in both money and property and the longer the fighting dragged on, the wealthier he would become.

Happily, there was little sign of it abating. Even without their king, the Royalists of Scotland and Wales were far from giving up. They were even making rash noises about invading England and attacking London. From the comfort of his seat in the carriage he thought that unlikely; there were better possibilities closer to home. Fairfax was preparing to take Maidstone and Colchester, where Royalists were still holding out, and there were rumours of rebellion in the navy. Men would die, new equipment would be needed and there was much money yet to be made.

Despite his subsequent success, the memory of Oxford was as sharp now as ever. Had it not been for that tiresome little bookseller, his plan to abduct the queen and use her as a pawn in negotiations with the king would have succeeded. He would have been lauded by Parliament and richly rewarded for his efforts. As it was, Thomas Hill had thwarted him and he had only just escaped with his life. He had waited patiently for an opportunity to exact his revenge and it had come at last when a copy of Hill’s pamphlet landed on his desk. A word here, a bribe there and the matter was settled. Hill was arrested and deported as an indentured servant to Barbados, where his partners the Gibbes would take very good care of him until he could pay them a visit himself. Illiterate they might be, but the brothers Gibbes had an eye for business and had quickly learned how to manage the estate
to best advantage. That had been another wise investment. He had bought the land cheaply from a failed cotton grower, had it put to sugar and had reaped the rewards ever since. More satisfactory still was the thought of the misery coming to Hill and the delicious pleasure awaiting him in Romsey. It had been worth the wait. The anticipation sent a tingle down his spine.

With a jolt the carriage came to a sudden halt and he was thrown forward on to the seat opposite. He rapped on the side and shouted at the coachman. ‘Why have we stopped, man?’

‘There’s a line of apprentices blocking the road, sir,’ answered the coachman.

He raised a curtain and peered out. There were about twenty of them, two lines deep, shaven-headed and armed with knives and cudgels. Some of them were little more than children. These apprentices were becoming a damnable nuisance in London. At the start of the war they had fought for Parliament, now they were demanding the release of the king. They blocked roads, broke windows and attacked carriages. He had no intention of allowing them to get in his way. ‘Drive on, man,’ he shouted, ‘drive through them.’

‘They are armed, sir.’ The coachman sounded nervous.

‘Do as I say, man, and get on with it.’ The coachman flicked his reins and urged the two greys on. They too were nervous and he had to use the whip to get them moving.

Until the very last minute the apprentices held their ground, moving aside only when the carriage was almost upon them. At that moment, spooked by something, one of the horses shied and the carriage slowed. An apprentice saw his chance and grabbed a door handle. He pulled aside a curtain and looked in. It was a mistake. With a piercing scream he fell backwards, holding his
hands to an eye. He was dead when he landed on the cobbles. The carriage continued on its way while the boy’s fellows gathered around his body.

Inside, Tobias Rush wiped the blade on a silk handkerchief, tossed the handkerchief out of the window and slid the blade back into the cane. Ten minutes later the carriage halted outside his house in Cheapside and he climbed out. ‘Good evening, sir,’ said the coachman. There was no reply.

HEAT, HUNGER, BOREDOM
. As the weather grew warmer, the tempers of the prisoners grew shorter. Arguments became more common and more violent. On deck, where they were never without guards, food was grabbed and threats were made. In the hold, fists flew and heads were cracked. Down there it was the flame-haired Irishman who sparked most fights. Although he left Thomas alone, he found plenty of other victims. He took special delight in finding a man groaning from fever or sickness, tipping him out of his hammock and kicking him until he was quiet. None of the other prisoners made any attempt to stop him. It would have taken half a dozen of them to do so.

The questions had gradually dried up, which was just as well as Thomas had run out of answers. He had plenty of questions of his own, but of course there was no one to ask. He kept to himself as much as he could, keeping out of the way of danger and avoiding all but the most harmless conversation. It was not easy – in such a place a stumble or a clumsy word could
easily cause trouble – and he was bound to find trouble some time.

It came one morning when the young Irish boy sat down on the deck beside him. He was a skinny fellow, shorter than Thomas, with protruding teeth and yellow hair. ‘I’m Michael,’ he said. ‘I’m a Cork man. What’s your name?’

‘Thomas Hill. I come from Romsey.’

Michael looked puzzled. ‘Where’s that then?’

‘Not far from London.’

‘Oh, London. Wicked place, Ma says, full of whores and harlots. What did you do?’

‘I wrote something I shouldn’t have.’

‘I stole a pig. We had no food.’ Thomas nodded and concentrated on his dinner. Even from this harmless wretch he wanted to keep his distance. He was about to get to his feet when two men came over and stood in front of the boy. From their looks and having heard them speak, Thomas knew they were cousins, a nasty pair who liked to boast about what they had done.

‘Now, boy,’ said the taller one, ‘we want what you owe.’

‘Hand it over,’ ordered the other, ‘and there won’t be no trouble.’

Thomas glanced at Michael. The boy was frightened.

‘I’ve none left. I’ve eaten it.’

The cousins exchanged a look. ‘What do we do to a boy who doesn’t pay his debts, cousin?’ asked the first one.

‘We teach him a lesson, cousin.’ The shorter one bent down, grabbed Michael’s throat and hauled him to his feet.

Thomas stood up. ‘What does he owe you for?’ he asked quietly.

‘None of your concern, little man.’

‘It is my concern. Michael is my friend.’

‘Your friend, eh? Then you’d better pay his debts for him, hadn’t you?’ The taller one lunged at Thomas, aiming at his eyes. Thomas had learned how to protect himself when a student at Oxford, where many a bigger man had regretted taking him for an easy opponent. He moved smoothly to avoid the attack, grasped the man’s wrist and twisted. There was an astonished yelp followed by a foul oath. ‘You little …’ Thomas twisted harder. The man was forced to the deck, his wrist held firmly in Thomas’s grip. Thomas planted a foot on his groin and pushed.

‘Let the boy go,’ he said to the one holding Michael. There was no response. He leaned a little harder on the groin.

‘Let him go, for the love of God,’ screamed the man. His cousin spat at Thomas and pushed the boy aside. Thomas kept hold of the wrist and spoke slowly.

‘This boy is under my care. If you so much as touch him, you’ll answer to me. Is that clear enough?’ There was no response. He twisted again. ‘I said, is that clear enough?’ This time, the stricken man managed a strangled croak.

‘Clear.’

Thomas turned to the other one.

‘Clear.’

He let go the wrist.

‘I shall be watching. Now bugger off.’

The man on the deck got up and rubbed his wrist. His cousin shook his head and they slouched off towards the stern.

Michael touched Thomas’s arm. ‘Why did you do that, Thomas?’