I could not believe I had been moved to tears by his letter. Anne was right. All I had to do was hand him over. What had happened made no difference. I had been colluding with him only to find out what his plans were. To take those plans to Cromwell would put Ireton’s nose out of joint and be a great feather in my cap. The maid served him his leg of mutton. As he tried to grab her again I gave her a smile of sympathy, which she returned with interest. He saw our glance. Again there was that moment of disorientation, of seeing himself in the mirror of other people’s eyes. Recovering, he fell on his mutton, declaring it the best he had ever tasted. And the raisin and gooseberry sauce!
He swallowed half of a second glass of sack. ‘Come. Our first meal together and you are not eating?’
I told him my only appetite was to know what he was doing in London. All the false joviality left him. He jumped up, glancing at the nearby stalls. The only diner in sight was asleep, and the maid was throwing scraps from his plate to a dog. ‘Serving my King,’ he said. ‘Cromwell is planning to take the King from the Presbyterians and exile him.’
I laughed. ‘Rubbish. Disobey Parliament? Cromwell would never do that.’
We spoke across one another in an increasingly heated argument, laying bare our feelings about politics in a way we could not do about each other. I said passionately that Cromwell did not want to exile the King. The people wanted both King and Parliament. Richard thought Cromwell a great ogre, but I was as fervent about Cromwell as he was about the King. The arguments got nowhere, petering out into an exhausted silence. Neither of us had talked in any depth before to someone on the opposite side and, in spite of our violently different opinions, they drew us closer in a way I would never have anticipated.
Richard painted a rueful, witty picture of what he called the charms of exile. The hospitable French spared nothing, he said, to encourage their guests to leave as soon as possible. They had given their poor relations lodgings at the wrong end of the Chateau de St Germain, damp and draught-ridden, where Queen Henrietta’s court bickered, fought duels to allay boredom, and dreamed of home. The Queen, desperate to return and impatient with Charles’s religious scruples, was arguing for Charles to settle with Parliament, in impassioned letters of which Richard was the entrusted messenger.
‘You have the letters with you?’
‘I’m not such a fool.’
Nevertheless his hand went to a bulge under his shirt. He had become so animated, a number of people had entered the inn without us being aware of it. Two men passing stared at Richard, making him jumpy, until one joked that if Puritans were drinking there was hope for them all. A tinge of malice went through me as he glanced nervously towards the door every time it opened, just as I had done when I was on the run. He went to the bar to pay the maid, fumbling under his shirt for a bulging purse. I glimpsed not letters, but money, before he concealed it again. A lot of money. Gold unites and angels. It was growing darker, and the maid was lighting candles.
‘What are you doing in London?’
‘Keep your voice down. I told you. I have messages for the King.’
‘The King’s in the north. What are you doing here? With all that money?’
‘I came to see you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you are my son.’
I would have treated that with the same distrust I had given his letter, had not a flickering candle thrown light fully on his face. His mask of arrogant certainty had slipped. He seemed at a loss; surprised he had said the words. He gave me a cautious look, ready to flee behind some flippancy. Perhaps he expected rejection. Derision. Instead I was struck dumb by the same conflict of feelings that had run through me when I opened his letter. The door opened and the draught plunged us back into shadow. When the silence continued to lengthen he ordered more wine and poured me a glass. I shook my head.
‘You will drink with me, damn you, sir, or I will say no more.’
I took the glass. ‘If you wanted to see me, why didn’t you reply to my letter?’
‘Because when it came to it, I was afraid it was a trap. Was it?’
‘No. But I nearly took your letter to Cromwell.’
‘Nearly? Did you?’
‘No.’
He moved further down the bar so he was out of the light and I in it. He told me that when he had landed a month ago on the Kentish beach, one of the customs officers he killed had wounded him slightly. The wound had turned infectious. He was too ill to ride but could not entrust the letters to anyone else. The first day he was up he heard at the Exchange that Lord Stonehouse had thrown me out. He celebrated with two bottles of sack. That perfect boy, whom Lord Stonehouse had treated as if he was his own son, had turned out to have feet of clay! But that night the priest came back to haunt him, robbing him of sleep.
Priest? He told his story in fits and starts, in no kind of order, staring not at me, but at the candle. With the pools of light, and the high wooden stalls like pews, it was as if we were in church. He crossed himself even while he swore that, in St Germain, it was impossible to get away from the bloody papists. Half drunk one night, he took a wager from Prince Rupert he would go into confession. He knew enough about the damned breed from the Queen, who was brought up one, to fool his way into the box. Box?
‘Box of tricks, I thought. A grille. A voice. I could scarcely keep my face straight! Peccavit. Holy Father, I have sinned. I started to talk about you. Well. I had to say something.’
He shivered. He glanced round one way, then another, at the jumping shadows.
‘Went in there without a problem in the world. Came out in hell.’ He laughed, but his face glistened and he licked his lips compulsively. ‘Much healthier for the soul in England. No bloody priests. After celebrating when my father threw you out, I had a nightmare – bloody priest threatening me with hellfire. That’s when I wrote you that letter.’
‘I replied. I waited at the Exchange. Twice!’
‘First time I feared a trap. Had to check it out.’
‘And the second time?’
He fiddled with his glass. ‘When you turned up at the ’Change I didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know what the hell I was doing there. Followed you. Curious, I suppose, that’s all. Curious.’
He moved to pick up his glass, but made a face as if the wine had gone sour. For the first time he looked at me directly.
‘I saw your face when you came out of your tailor’s empty-handed. How many times have I been through that when my skinflint of a father cut my allowance!’ He slapped his thigh and laughed until the tears shone. ‘I almost went up to you then.’
He had stood on the same patch of carpet. Suffered the same torrents of abuse, the same unexpected grunts of praise, which led only to dashed hopes and even more savage recrimination. Gradually, it was impossible not to wince, laugh, warm to him. I took several glasses of the wine, while he no longer touched it.
‘When he picks up the seal, do you duck?’
‘Never!’
He nodded approvingly. ‘Sign of weakness.’
He wiped his eyes. ‘Followed you to your house.’ I stiffened. He shook his head. ‘Very mean. A merchant would