Andrew Swanston - The King's Return

‘Will he grant permission?’

‘His Majesty values loyalty more highly than anything. I hope so.’

‘As do I. Now, if there is nothing else tonight, Joseph, I shall go to my bed.’

‘Go, Thomas. I will bring you news tomorrow.’

JOSEPH ARRIVED AT the house in Piccadilly the following afternoon. He found Thomas reading in the sitting room. ‘I have come from Whitehall Palace,’ he announced breathlessly. ‘The king has instructed me to take no further action in the matter of Stoner’s death and to concentrate on recruiting loyal and reliable officers to the security service and the Post Office.’

‘Thank God.’

‘It was straightforward. After ten days of doing nothing, that drunken sot Manners decided that Stoner had taken his own life, although how he did so Manners could not say. I received his report this morning. This time the man’s incompetence proved useful. I passed on his opinion, without comment, to His Majesty.’

‘What did His Majesty say?’

‘He said that he was happy that both traitors had taken their own lives and that he hoped more would follow their example, as that would save the country the trouble and expense of trying and executing them.’

‘Then the matter is closed and I can go home.’

Joseph shook his head. ‘Not quite closed, I’m afraid. When Morland was released he went straight to the king and made serious accusations against both of us.’

‘How did His Majesty respond?’

‘I do not yet know. I am to present myself at Whitehall at nine o’clock tomorrow morning. You are to do so an hour later. A carriage will be sent for you.’

It was a shock. ‘Joseph, in view of my part in decrypting the letter and identifying Stoner as Argentum, not to mention finding Squire, rescuing your cousin and arresting the d’Entrevaux, is this not somewhat harsh?’

‘Of course it is. But we live in harsh times and the king’s temperament is mercurial. He can be easily swayed. And there is another thing. Sir Edward Nicholas returned from York yesterday. He has always favoured Morland and is likely to support him. Who knows what Morland may have told him?’

‘Perhaps I should leave London at once.’

‘I would not advise that. The king would take it as an admission of guilt and have you hunted down and hanged.’

Something inside Thomas snapped. ‘For the love of God, Joseph, this is unjust and absurd. You know perfectly well that I have served the country loyally, and what is more, it was you who dragged me into the whole affair in the first place. I insist that you make this clear to the king.’

Joseph peered at him. ‘I shall endeavour to do so. The king, however, might not listen, just as his father did not listen when he would have been well advised to do so.’ His voice softened. ‘Be prepared, Thomas, that is all I am saying. The carriage will be here before ten tomorrow. Oh, I nearly forgot. We have another body.’

‘Dear God, not another. Who?’

‘Roger Willow.’

‘Was he murdered?’

‘Impossible to say. Been in the river too long.’ Thomas screwed up his eyes and tried not to picture the bloated corpse of the chief clerk. Squire’s accomplice or slighted servant of the Crown? Now they would never know.

How does an innocent man prepare for an audience with the king, at which he is to be falsely accused of he knows not what? Does he devise defences against every possible attack or does he trust to his wits and wait until he can see from which direction the attack is coming? He does neither. He eats a good dinner, drinks a bottle of excellent claret and a glass of brandy and goes to sleep for an hour or two. It was a good plan and Thomas carried it out without difficulty.

When he awoke, however, he had dreamed that Madeleine was a witch who had publicly accused him of betraying her and had demanded his head on a platter. Unlike most dreams, it did not vanish with sleep but stayed with him for the rest of the day. Even while he stretched his legs and cleared his head in St James’s Park he saw Madeleine’s face, fierce and unforgiving, and her long, sharp finger outstretched and pointing at his heart. He heard her grating voice and stared into her unblinking eyes.

Yet when he returned to the house he half expected Josiah to be waiting for him with news. And each time he heard footsteps in the street he listened in vain for a knock on the door. Smythe brought him a light supper, which he ignored. He sat in silence, from time to time rising to pace up and down the room. The Essais remained unopened at his side. That night he did not sleep. He did not even close his eyes.

Morning came eventually. Smythe brushed down Thomas’s coronation outfit – long sky-blue coat over a white ruffled shirt, satin breeches tied with ribbons at the knee and black shoes with silver buckles – and Thomas scraped his face with a razor and risked a look in Mary’s hand mirror. ‘You’ll have to do, Thomas,’ he said to his reflection. ‘Let’s hope this king is more agreeable than his father.’

At twenty minutes before ten there was a knock on the door. Thomas put on his coat and answered it. A young captain stood outside. ‘If you are ready, sir, the king’s carriage awaits you. My orders are to escort you to Whitehall Palace.’

Thomas followed the captain to the carriage. An armed guard opened the door for him, then the captain climbed in beside him and shouted at the driver to be off. ‘Have you ever been inside Whitehall Palace, sir?’ he asked, as they reached Charing Cross.

‘I have not. I hear it’s possible to get lost in it.’

‘So they say. Lost souls and wandering ghosts, some of the servants believe. Alas, I’ve never seen one.’ Thomas heard no clue about his fate in the captain’s voice. He might be going to a royal feast or to his own execution.

The carriage made its way along Whitehall to the Palace Gate, where it turned into a long courtyard. ‘This is the Court,’ said the captain, ‘and in front of us is the Great Hall.’ The carriage stopped outside the Hall and the captain jumped out. ‘Follow me, sir. There are more than fifteen hundred rooms in the palace and I would not want you going into the wrong one.’ Nor would I, thought Thomas, not with many of them occupied by one or other of the king’s mistresses.

The captain led him past the Hall, and through a maze of paths and lanes to an entrance guarded by two soldiers. Thomas noticed a walled garden on their left. They went through the entrance and into a room on their right. ‘This is one of His Majesty’s chambers,’ the captain told him. ‘He likes to hold private audiences here. He will enter from the royal apartments through that door.’ He pointed to a door at the far end of the room. ‘He will be accompanied by six courtiers. When His Majesty enters, you should bow from the waist and wait for him to address you. If he offers you his hand, take it lightly. I shall be standing at the door we entered by and will escort you to your destination when your audience is over.’

His destination? The Tower? Newgate? Tyburn? ‘Thank you, captain. The last time I met a king it was in Oxford. Had either of us but known it, the country had seven years of war to look forward to.’

The room was bare but for heavy Flemish tapestries on the walls and a large chair upholstered in red velvet with gold braid and tassels in one corner. The high ceiling was vaulted with oak beams and the floor polished to bring out the grain of its timbers. It was a room to impose and impress.

The door to the royal apartments was opened by a servant and the king, followed by his courtiers, swept in. His Majesty wore a sumptuous red silk cloak over a snowy-white shirt with mutton-chop sleeves, and blue velvet breeches tied with gold ribbon at the knee. On his feet were shiny black leather shoes with thick soles and huge silver buckles. He planted himself on the chair with his courtiers arranged on either side and fixed the royal stare on Thomas, who bowed as instructed.