‘A month ago.’
‘Who was he?’
‘I think you can guess. He was an excellent swordsman. He killed two of the customs men. He’s somewhere in the City – he’s been spotted at the Exchange. I have men out looking for him.’
A month ago. The dates fitted with Richard’s letter. So did the swordsmanship. I felt again the prick of the sword he held at my throat after Edgehill, touched the scar on my cheek where it had been cut open by one of his men. A surge of excitement ran through me. At one stroke I could have everything. It was my ticket to working with Cromwell, to becoming an MP. But it would have to be done so Lord Stonehouse did not know I was involved
Clever, clever Anne, who had put this idea into my mind. But she was wrong in one thing. She thought I had swallowed Lord Stonehouse speaking of me as his heir. I was a fool, but not that much of a fool. I had gloried in the possibility, but in my heart of hearts I knew it would never happen. A bastard and a printer’s daughter? That was why I kept my feet in Thomas Neave’s boots, while wearing Thomas Stonehouse’s plumed hat. Because I was determined to be my own man. But this changed everything.
With Richard out of the way, I would be the sole male heir. From that moment, hemmed in by a cage of musty papers, I could afford the luxury of belief. All this ran through my mind as Cromwell closed the door on Ireton and returned to his desk, eyes half-lidded in weariness.
Reflecting this sudden expansion of my inner world, I tilted my chair backwards, knocking over a pile of ordinances.
Cromwell pushed the door fully open. ‘Why, Tom! I forgot you were there.’
I scrambled up in confusion, picking up the papers.
‘Leave them, leave them. That is the Blasphemy Ordinance. Hanging people for denying the Trinity? The Presbyterians will never get that through.’
He unearthed the letter I had sent, asking to work with him. ‘Work with me, Tom?’ he laughed. ‘I hope not. We are at peace. Disbanding.’
‘I mean here.’
‘Here? In this Tower of Babel? Trying to bring all these contentious voices together? You would be bored to death.’
‘Not working with you.’
I meant it. As soon as I sat opposite him I realised how much I missed working with him. He made men not only believe in what they were doing, but believe in themselves. His brooding self-criticism, constantly questioning his own ability and his own frailty, led people to be much more open to his criticism of them. And so everyone worked with a common purpose, knowing that he drove no one more relentlessly than he drove himself.
I drew out Richard’s letter and opened it, glimpsing the words ‘forgive me … your father.’ Once again, the effort of that laboured scrawl brought a rush of feeling that caught me unawares. My eyes pricked and I was unable to speak. Suppose Richard was genuine? What if he had changed? I dismissed it. A man like that, who sent people to kill me?
‘What have you got there, Tom?’
‘I …’
It was not so much that I believed Richard was genuine; more that I knew I would never forgive myself if I did not at least try to find out before giving him away.
‘What is it, Tom?’ Cromwell said, more sharply, reaching out for the letter.
I pulled it away. ‘It – it is from a gentleman supporting me to be an MP.’
‘Lord Stonehouse will support you.’
‘He has refused to.’
‘And you expect me to?’
His refusal was implicit in the question. His manner became brusque. I had seen him reject people asking for favours many times before in this abrupt way, but it was humiliating when it happened to me. I stuffed my father’s letter in my bag and went to the door.
‘Wait. You have quarrelled with Lord Stonehouse? He has cut your allowance?’
He knew everything. Probably, I thought bitterly, Lord Stonehouse had told him, blocking any chance of him putting me forward as an MP. What happened next was even more humiliating, although he did it with the best of intentions, in the manner of a helping hand for an old army colleague down on his luck. He took me down the corridor to an office where a clerk was transcribing his last speech. A warrant made out to Thomas Stonehouse for army pay had the amount already filled in. Cromwell signed an army warrant in his large, rolling script, clapped me on the shoulders, and went.
The clerk checked the amount of pay I was owed in a ledger and completed the army warrant. He wore a fine linen shirt, rolled back at the wrists to protect it from ink splashes. It was the splashes, rather than the man, that I recognised.
‘Mr Ink,’ I cried, flinging my arms round the man whom I had known as a humble scrivener at Westminster, when he had smuggled out Mr Pym’s speeches for me to run with them to the printer, speeches which had begun the great rebellion against the King.
‘I am Mr Clarke,’ he said. ‘William.’ There was a hint of reproof in his bow. His dark grey doublet was severe, but fashionably unbuttoned at the waist to show the quality of his linen.
‘You have a new name and fine new clothes,’ I said.
He told me Clarke had always been his name. It was I, as a child, who had christened him Mr Ink, but now he had risen in the world he would appreciate being called William Clarke, Esq. It was said with a wink to show that somewhere inside those new clothes was my old friend Mr Ink, but it added to my feeling that everyone was rising in the world but me.
When I left that feeling stayed with me, and the army warrant in my pocket only reminded me of my humiliation. I walked slowly but reached Drury Lane all too soon. As I went through the passage, I thought of my father, wanting to answer his letter.
Anne looked at me expectantly as I was going into my study.
‘I did not tell Cromwell,’ I said. ‘Whatever he’s done, Richard is my father. I’ll write to him. See if he is sincere.’
I went to close the door but still she stood there. ‘Is that all?’
Silently I gave her the army warrant. She stared at Mr Ink’s elegant hand, and the rolling loops of Cromwell’s signature. For four months’ back pay I had been awarded eleven pounds, six shillings and threepence.
‘You fool,’ she said.
I thought she was going to tear it up. I snatched it from her so it did tear. There was a rush of blood to my head. A roaring in my ears. I gripped her by the shoulders and God knows what I would have done to her if I had not seen Luke staring from the hall.
Anne turned away and, without a word, took Luke by the hand and led him upstairs.
My power with words deserted me when it came to answering Richard’s letter. I balked at the first hurdle. Dear Richard? Dear Father? Dear Sir Richard? The coldly formal Sir?
In the end, I opted for the last. I wrote:
Sir,
I do not know what to write (true). After what you have done to me in the past you will forgive me for feeling suspicious (to put it mildly). I believe you are in London. I should report you to the authorities. I have not given you away (at the moment) because I would like to meet to find if you are writing ab imo pectore (the Stonehouse motto: from the heart). I shall be at the Exchange, at the sign of the Bull, tomorrow, Thursday and the following day, at noon.
I remain,