Edward Marston - The Amorous Nightingale

'You were,' explained his father. 'You were so christened because the Lord Protector's son was called Richard. When his father died, he inherited his title and his power.'

'Was he as great a man as his father?' wondered Richard.

'Alas, no.'

'Nobody was as great as Oliver Cromwell,' boasted the older boy. 'That's why I carry his name. I mean to be great myself.'

'You already are,' teased Richard. 'A great fool.'

Oliver bridled. 'Who are you calling a fool?'

'Nobody,' said Jonathan firmly, quelling the argument before it could even begin. 'Now, look at the house and remember the man who once owned it. We must keep his memory bright in our hearts. England owes so much to him. He is sorely missed.'

'What about his son, Richard?' said his namesake.

'Well, yes…' Jonathan tried to keep disappointment out of his voice. 'Richard Cromwell is missed, too, but in a different way. His achievements fell short of his father's. That was only to be expected.'

'Where is he now, Father?'

'Somewhere in France.'

'Why?'

'Richard Cromwell is in exile.'

'What does that mean?'

'He is not allowed to live in this country.'

'But you said that he was Lord Protector.'

'For a time.'

'What happened?'

Jonathan shrugged. 'That's a long story,' he said softly. 'When you are old enough to understand it, I'll tell it to you.'

'I understand it,' asserted Oliver, inflating his little chest. 'It's quite simple. Oliver Cromwell was famous, which is why I was christened after him. His son was hopeless so Richard was the right name for you.'

'That's not true!' protested his brother.

'It certainly isn't,' confirmed Jonathan.

'They called him Tumbledown Dick,' said Oliver, grinning wickedly at his sibling. 'That's how useless he was. Just like you, Richard. You're Tumbledown Dick Bale!'

'No!' wailed Richard.

'That's enough!' said Jonathan sternly. 'There'll be no mockery of the Cromwell family. Both of you should be justly proud of the names you bear.' He shook Oliver hard. 'Don't ever let me hear you making fun of your brother again. You'll answer to me, if you do.'

The boy nodded penitently. 'Yes, Father.'

'There is no shame in being called after Richard Cromwell.'

'Why didn't he become King?' asked the younger boy.

Jonathan let the question hang in the air. Directing the gaze of both sons to the house once more, he reflected on the changes that had occurred during their short lifetimes. Oliver was almost ten now, born and baptised when the Lord Protector was still alive. Richard was three years younger, named after a man whose own rule was brief, inglorious and mired in controversy. Both sons had grown up under a restored monarch, Charles II, a King who showed all the arrogance of the Stuart dynasty and who, in Jonathan's opinion, had devalued the whole concept of royalty by his scandalous behaviour. A devout Puritan like Jonathan Bale was bound to wonder if the plague, decimating the population of London, and the subsequent fire, destroying most of the buildings within the city walls, had been visited on the capital by a God who was appalled at the corruption and depravity that were the distinctive hallmarks of the Restoration.

The three of them were returning home after a long walk. Now in his late thirties, Jonathan was a big, solid man with a prominent nose acting as a focal point in a large face. The two warts on his cheek and the livid scar across his forehead gave him a slightly sinister appearance, but his children loved him devotedly and thought their father the most handsome of men. Long years as a shipwright had developed his muscles and broadened his back, visible assets in his role as a parish constable. Only the bold or the very foolish made the mistake of taking on Jonathan Bale in any form of combat.

He loomed over the two boys like a galleon between two rowing boats. Proud of his sons, he was keen to acquaint them with the history of their city and the significance of their names. The fashionable house outside which the trio were standing was at the Holborn end of Drury Lane, a respectable, residential neighbourhood with an abundance of flowers and trees to please the eye and to reinforce the sense of leisured wealth. The area presented a sharp contrast to their own ward of Baynard's Castle. Untouched by the Great Fire of the previous year, Drury Lane and its environs were highly popular with the rich and the powerful. Addle Hill, on the other hand, where Jonathan and Sarah Bale and their sons lived, comprised more modest dwellings. It had been largely gutted by fire and Jonathan had had to rebuild his home before they could move back into it.

'Let us go,' he said quietly. 'We have seen enough.'

'Who owns the house now, Father?' said Oliver.

'Nobody of importance.'

The boys fell in beside him as he strode off down Drury Lane, unable to match his long stride and all but scurrying to keep pace with him. They had reached the long bend in the thoroughfare when the sound of an approaching carriage made them turn. It came rumbling at speed from the direction of Holborn, the rasping sound of its huge wheels augmented by the urgent clatter of the horses' hooves. The coachman did not spare them a glance but one of the occupants leaned forward with interest. As the vehicle went past, the smiling face of a young woman appeared at the window and a delicate hand waved in greeting. Jonathan lifted a rough palm in response.

'Who was that?' asked Richard, hugely impressed that his father should know anyone who travelled in such style. 'The lady waved to you.'

'It was Mary Hibbert,' said Jonathan.

'She was very pretty.'

'Yes. Mary takes after her mother.'

'Is she a friend of yours?'

'I know the Hibbert family well. They used to live not far from us in Carter Lane. Good, kind, decent, God-fearing people.' A distant regret intruded. 'Mary was a dutiful daughter at first. But times have changed.'

'What do you mean, Father?' said Oliver.

Jonathan shook his head dismissively. The coach had now slowed to pick its way through the crowd that was converging on Bridges Street. Recognising one of the occupants of the vehicle, several people cheered or gesticulated excitedly. A few young men ran alongside the coach to peer in. Richard surveyed the scene with increased awe.

'Is Mary Hibbert famous?' he asked.

'No,' replied his father.

'Then why is everyone waving to her?'

'I suspect that there is another lady in the coach.'

'Who?'

'Nobody you need concern yourself with, Richard.'

'Is the other lady famous?' said Oliver.

'That is not the word that I would use.'

'Who is she, Father?'

'Tell us,' said Richard. 'Who is the famous lady?'

'And where are all those people going?'

Jonathan raised a disapproving eyebrow before shepherding his sons down a sidestreet in order to avoid the gathering crowd.

'To the theatre,' he said.

Christopher Redmayne caught only the merest glimpse of her as she alighted from the coach and made her way through a circle of admirers. When she and her companion entered the building by means of a rear door, there was a collective sigh of disappointment, immediately replaced by an anticipatory glee as those same gentlemen realised that they would soon view her again upon the stage. There was an involuntary surge towards the front entrance of the theatre. Christopher and his brother waited while it spent its force.

Henry watched the stampede with wry amusement.

'Did any woman ever lead so many men by their pizzles?' he observed. 'Truly, their brains are in their breeches when she is near.'

'Who is the lady?' asked Christopher.

'Who else but the toast of London? The uncrowned queen of the stage. A veritable angel in human guise. She is the prettiest piece of flesh in Christendom and I speak as a connoisseur of such creatures. I'll hold you six to four that she could tempt a saint, let alone a Pope or an Archbishop. Yes,' Henry added with a wild laugh, 'she might even make our dear father abandon his piety and dance naked around the cloisters of Gloucester Cathedral with a rose between his teeth.'