Susanna Gregory: The Butcher Of Smithfield

Greeting was silent for a moment, then spoke softly. ‘He recently left his Thames Street cottage and took rooms at the Rhenish Wine House in Westminster. He said his move was a secret, and his closest friend — who you will recall is old Smegergill the virginals player — said he would not even tell him where he had gone.’

‘Yet he told you?’ asked Chaloner, rather sceptically. He still found it hard to believe that Maylord would have chosen Greeting as a confidant.

Greeting was offended. ‘Maylord liked me. When I asked him why he had left Thames Street, he told me he wanted to be nearer White Hall, but I am sure he was not telling the truth. I suspect it was all connected to whatever was bothering him.’

Chaloner regarded him unhappily. Maylord had loved his house, and would not have left it without good cause. The spy was deeply sorry that his friend had spent his last few days in a state of such agitation.

‘I had better go,’ said Greeting, when Chaloner did not speak. ‘The King has invited a party of mathematicians to meet him, and my consort — the little group of musicians under my direction — has been hired to play for the occasion. There is a fear that these worthy scientists may become tongue-tied with awe in His Majesty’s presence, and we are commissioned to fill any awkward silences with timely noise.’

Chaloner watched him go, feeling grief settle in the pit of his stomach. He felt something else, too — resentment that circumstances had prevented him from being there for Maylord, and guilt that he had let down a friend. He took a deep breath and forced his thoughts back to his White Hall duties, and the Earl.

He left the palace, and headed for The Strand, where the south side of the road was lined with handsome mansions, and the north side was faced with shops and mean dwellings of the kind that were owned by the poorer kind of tradesmen. Worcester House was not the finest home in the area, but it was smart enough to provide an imposing residence for a lord chancellor. It was mostly Tudor, boasting a forest of twisted, ornamental chimney-pots, stone mullions that were stained black with age, and a massive iron-studded gate.

Chaloner walked up the path, which was bordered by viciously trimmed little hedges, and knocked on the door. He was shown into a pleasant, lavender-scented chamber overlooking the gardens and asked to wait. He expected the Earl to finish what he was doing before deigning to meet a mere retainer, and was surprised when the great man bustled in just a few moments later.

England’s Lord Chancellor was a fussy, pedantic man, whose prim morals did not make him popular with the dissipated Court; the younger nobles mocked his prudery, and he had earned himself a reputation for being a killjoy. His appearance did not help, either: he was short, fat and wore overly ornate clothes that did not suit his stout frame. He had grown bigger since Chaloner had left for Lisbon, a result of a sedentary lifestyle and the Court’s rich food. That morning, he wore a massive blond periwig, with a dark red coat and matching satin breeches. Lace foamed at his neck, partly concealing his array of chins.

‘Heyden!’ he cried, touching the spy’s shoulder in a rare gesture of affection. Yet as soon as it was made, he seemed to regret it, because he became businesslike and aloof. ‘When did you return?’

‘Last night, sir, but too late to visit you. You would have been in bed.’

‘I doubt it,’ replied Clarendon, indicating his spy was to sit next to him on the window-seat. ‘I am up all hours with affairs of state. Do you recall that feud I was having with the Earl of Bristol? Well, after you had gone, he tried to impeach me in Parliament ! He accused me of all manner of false crimes, but the House of Lords saw through his lies, and he is now banished to France.’

Chaloner nodded. He had heard the stories on his way home, and had been pleased: the flight of Bristol would mean one fewer enemy for him to worry about when he resumed the business of protecting his Earl.

‘My fortunes are on the rise again, thank God,’ Clarendon went on. ‘But unfortunately, my other foes — namely the Duke of Buckingham and the King’s favourite mistress — wait like vultures for me to make a mistake.’

Chaloner was not surprised; the Earl’s aloof manners had earned him a lot of enemies in White Hall. ‘I am sorry to hear that, sir.’

‘Today, however,’ said the Earl with an unfriendly look, ‘we had better talk about you. You abandoned me shamefully in June. The Queen summoned you to meet her, and you accepted the assignment she offered without once asking me whether it was convenient for you to go.’

Chaloner was taken aback by this version of events. ‘That is not quite true, sir. I told Her Majesty that I was not the right man for the task she had in mind, and pointed out that I had duties here in London, but you ordered me to do as she asked.’

The Earl glared at him. ‘Well, of course I did when she was there, man! She asked if she might borrow you, and I could hardly refuse the request of a queen, could I? I am the Lord Chancellor, for God’s sake — a servant of the Crown. However, you should have thought of a reason to decline, and I am angry that you did not bother. I feel it was a betrayal.’

Chaloner suspected the Earl saw betrayal everywhere after what he had been through with Bristol. But what had happened in June was not his fault, and he felt he was being unfairly accused.

‘I did not ask to be summoned by her. I did not ask to go to Lisbon, either.’

Clarendon continued to glare. ‘She noticed you because you had the audacity to smile at her on an occasion when she felt the city was hostile towards her. She asked your name, and I just happened to mention that you knew Portuguese — her native language — as a point of conversation. I did not imagine for a moment that she would demand your services. It was not what I intended at all.’

‘No, sir,’ said Chaloner, thinking the Earl should have kept his mouth shut about his servant’s skills, if he had not wanted him poached.

‘And then news came about a fierce battle between Portugal and Spain, and she decided she needed intelligence from her own agent, a man she could trust. So off you went. She was pleased by what you did, by the way — uncovering that treacherous duke, who was undermining Portugal by feeding secrets to Spain — and I confess your reports were useful to me in determining certain points of foreign policy. But you should not have gone. I needed you here.’

Chaloner recalled the speed with which he had been dispatched — less than an hour to return to his lodgings, pack a few essentials and board the Lisbon-bound ship. He had rushed his preparations, because he had wanted a few moments to scribble a brief message to John Thurloe at Lincoln’s Inn — what the Queen had asked him to do was fraught with peril, and he had wanted one friend to know what had happened to him, in case he failed to return. He had been right to take such a precaution, because the escapade had transpired to be one of the most dangerous things he had ever done. And in an occupation like his, where risk was an everyday occurrence, that was saying a good deal.

‘You arranged my passage on that particular boat, sir,’ he pointed out, stubbornly refusing to accept all the blame. ‘Had you chosen a later one, we could have discussed-’

The Earl’s scowl deepened. ‘Lord, you are insolent! I am angry with you, but do you attempt to placate me with some suitable grovelling? No! You antagonise me with impudent observations about my past actions. I imagine you expect me to employ you again, but I am not sure I want a man who so eagerly races off to do the bidding of someone else.’