and his friends had had no doubt whatsoever that this fifth monarchy would be that of King Jesus. To bring this about they had been the implacable foes of the King in the late civil wars, and had done much to bring about the execution of Charles I.
Unfortunately the King’s death had not ushered in the reign of King Jesus after all. Instead it had led to the Commonwealth, which had soon become a military dictatorship under Oliver Cromwell. Cromwell, a king in all but name, grew increasingly hostile towards his former allies among the Fifth Monarchists. A year or two after his death, the monarchy was restored amid great popular acclamation in the person of Charles II.
My father had not given up hope, and the burning of London could only encourage this. Despite everything, he was still waiting for the destruction of terrestrial empires, still waiting for King Jesus and the reign of heaven on earth. And I was still trying to keep his mouth shut about it.
The King had not responded to my petition for clemency, which had come as no surprise since he hadn’t responded to the other two. But, ten days later, Master Williamson had written to me and commanded me to wait on him at Scotland Yard.
Yes, he said, His Majesty in his infinite mercy had decided that my father could, on conditions, be released into my custody. The first of these was that he should live in retirement and undertake not to meet those of his former associates still at large. There was no question, of course, of his house, business and possessions being restored to him. The second condition was that I should stand surety for his good conduct.
The third condition was that I should enter the employment of Master Williamson, and undertake any tasks that he might see fit to give me.
When disgrace had fallen on us after Venner’s Rising, I had been nearing the end of my apprenticeship to my father. In other words, I had the knowledge and the skills of the trade. That was one reason why Williamson wanted me to liaise with Master Newcomb, the printer of the Gazette, to make sure that he did not cheat the government.
He had given me other tasks, however, from the very beginning. My years at St Paul’s School had not been altogether wasted – I had an education that most other apprentices lacked. So he set me to copying letters. Taking notes. Running errands. Even talking to people on his behalf, sometimes when he did not wish his interest in them to be known.
But why take me with him now, when he went to call on one of the richest men in the kingdom?
Why me?
BARNABAS PLACE WAS not far from Holborn Bridge, where my Lord Craven’s men had brought the Fire to heel yesterday. The streets around it were mean, but the house itself was ancient and of considerable size. It also appeared to be built largely of stone, which must be a great comfort (Master Williamson remarked) in these inflammatory times.
I rapped on the great gate with the hilt of my dagger. Williamson stared about him, his mouth twisting with distaste. Refugees had swollen the crowd of beggars and supplicants that usually gathered at a rich man’s gate.
I knocked again. This time a shutter slid back and a porter asked me what we wanted.
‘Master Williamson is here on the King’s business. Tell Master Alderley he is here.’
The porter let us in, shaking his staff at two women, one with a baby wrapped in a shawl, who tried to slip in after us to beg for alms or find shelter. He showed us up a short flight of steps and into an anteroom.
All this was to be expected, but for some reason the porter was not at his ease. His eyes were restless, and he could not wait to leave us alone. After he left the room, we saw him whispering to another servant, and then both men turning to look towards the room where we were.
Moments passed. I stood by an oriel window overlooking a small courtyard. Williamson paced up and down, occasionally pausing to make a pencilled note in his memorandum book. It was strangely quiet after the hubbub of the streets. The thick walls of Barnabas Place made it both a sanctuary and a prison.
‘Why in God’s name is Alderley keeping us waiting?’ Williamson burst out, his Northern accent particularly marked.
‘Something’s going on, sir. Look.’
While I had been at the window, nearly a score of servants had gathered in the yard; they waited, uncharacteristically idle for the time of day, moving restlessly to and fro, and holding short, murmured conversations with each other. There was a furtiveness about their behaviour, and a strange air of uncertainty.
At that moment the door of the anteroom opened and a young lady entered. Williamson and I uncovered and bowed.
‘Mistress Alderley,’ Williamson said. ‘How do you do?’
She curtsied. ‘Master Williamson. I hope I find you in good health?’
Her dark eyes flicked towards me, and I felt an inconvenient jolt of attraction towards her.
‘Sir, my husband begs your indulgence, but he is delayed,’ she went on without waiting for a reply. ‘He will come as soon as he can, I promise. A matter of minutes.’
‘But he’s here?’
She was older than I had first thought, a shapely woman with fine eyes. Her charms were not moving at the same rate as the calendar. She looked tired.
‘Yes, sir, he is,’ she said. ‘And you must pardon the delay. We have had such—’
She was interrupted by another knock at the gate. Murmuring excuses, she slipped from the room in a rustle of silks.
We heard her voice outside, raised in command, and that of the porter and of a stranger. A little later a man clad in black crossed the courtyard under convoy of the porter. They went almost at a run, scattering the servants as they passed.
‘I know that man,’ Williamson said, joining me at the window. ‘It’s Dr Grout, isn’t it?’
‘A physician, sir?’
‘Of course. What did you think I meant? A doctor of theology? He treated my Lady Castlemaine when she had the French pox. She swears by him.’
Mistress Alderley returned. ‘Forgive me, sirs – we are at sixes and sevens.’
‘Someone’s ill?’ There was a hint of panic in Williamson’s voice, for stone walls were not a barrier to all evils, only to some of them. ‘Not the plague, I hope? Not here?’
‘Not that, sir, God be thanked.’ A muscle twitched beneath her left eye. ‘Something worse. My stepson, Edward, was attacked last night. In this very house. In his own bed.’
Williamson sat down suddenly.
‘God’s body, madam. Will he live?’
‘It’s in the hands of God, sir, and Dr Grout’s. Poor Edward was stabbed in the eye. He has burns as well – his bed curtains were set on fire. He lies between life and death.’
‘Have you caught the man who did it?’
‘We
