Andrew Swanston: The King's Exile

‘Another trick like that, Irishman,’ hissed one of them — the rat-faced man who had counted them on their first morning, ‘and you’ll feed the sharks.’

The giant scowled and spat. ‘Shitten little English worm. He won’t last the voyage. Why bother to keep him alive?’

‘He will last the voyage, Irishman,’ replied the other guard, pushing his pistol into the giant’s ear, ‘because you’re going to make sure he does. And if he doesn’t, neither will you. Is that clear enough for your heathen brain to understand?’

The giant spat again, stared at Thomas still sitting on the deck and nodded. For a moment none of the watching group moved, then a hand reached down to help Thomas to his feet. The guard spoke again. ‘That goes for all of you. This man has been paid for in advance and if he isn’t delivered as ordered, you’ll all pay.’ He turned to the giant. ‘Especially you, Irishman. Guard him carefully.’ The two guards lowered their pistols. For a moment the giant looked as if he might hit out at them, then he shrugged and slouched off towards the bow.

The guards returned to their posts and the prisoners were left alone. ‘And who’s paid for you in advance, Hill?’ asked one of them.

‘I have no idea. As I said, I was unjustly arrested. Someone must have wanted to get rid of me. God knows who.’

‘You sound like a Hampshire man. And you do know a lot. How is that?’

‘I am a Hampshire man. I come from Romsey. I have a bookshop. I read a lot.’

That seemed to satisfy them. The questions started up again, so it was just as well that, like many a clever man, Thomas had long ago mastered the art of making a little knowledge go a long way. ‘What about the white men, Hill?’

‘I know little about them except that the island is small, much smaller than Jamaica, so there won’t be many of them. They used to grow tobacco and cotton but I think it’s mostly sugar now. Perhaps the climate is more suited to sugar.’

‘So we’ll be indentured to sugar planters then? Working in the fields, I suppose.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Is it hot?’

‘Much hotter than Ireland, but the Caribbean islands are wet too, so it’ll be humid.’

The questions continued even after they were sent below. Thomas could answer some of them and guessed at others. In truth, however, he didn’t know what to expect any more than the next man. What he did know was that the instant he set foot on dry land, he would find a way to plead his case. He would tell the authorities exactly what he had written in the pamphlet, explain that his arrest had been a mistake and demand to be put straight back on a ship sailing for England. He would go home to Romsey, life would return to normal, on long winter evenings he would tell stories about the voyage and they would all laugh.

When the questions finished he thought about what the guard had said. Must arrive safely. Paid for in advance. By whom and why? If only he knew, he could better prepare his appeal. But he had not the slightest inkling. He would have to wait until they reached Barbados.

For three weeks they saw no other ships, privateers or otherwise, and each day it grew warmer. At first that was a comfort and Thomas discarded his coat and extra shirt and used them as bedding. But as they sailed southwards each night in the hold was hotter and nastier than the last. Men grew sick and lay in their hammocks, some having lost control of their bowels but too feeble to get to a bucket, others thrashing about and cursing the pain of distended stomachs and swollen joints. Four bodies went to feed the fish without so much as a piece of sacking to cover them, the Dominican priest among them. Thomas carried on answering questions as best he could, being careful to avoid taking sides. Although the Irish giant kept his distance, he knew the man was watching him. It was unnerving. Guarded by a fellow prisoner who would happily throw him over the side if he could, and not an inkling as to why.

Being cooped up on the ship made him think of his time in Oxford with the king, of being thrown into Oxford gaol and narrowly escaping death from gaol fever. And what of Margaret and the girls? Two blonde bundles of energy, forever plying Uncle Thomas with questions, jumping on his back, teasing him for his thinning hair, tickling him, insisting on a story. Since their father’s death they had all lived with him. There was a little money tucked away but it would not last forever. If he did not return soon Margaret might have to find work, unless she could run the bookshop on her own. In his mind’s eye, he saw her washing and cleaning and scrubbing floors and had to press the balls of his thumbs into his eyes to make the image go away.

For Thomas, time lost its meaning. Each day the same as the last one and the next one. Lie sweating and scratching in his hammock in the fetid heat of the hold, feel the ship rising and falling with the swell of the sea, listen to the curses and prayers of the frightened, suffering men around him, climb the ladder on to the deck, swallow what food and drink what water he could, keep out of trouble, climb back into the hold, stay alive.

Stay alive.

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?