The first was that evening at Sir William’s house, for by his side when he returned to the fire was Marco da Cola.
I must assume that he had some good reason for falsifying the story of his arrival in England, for I can attest that it is erroneous. He cannot have arrived as he said; he did not come to London, then proceed more or less directly to Oxford. He was in this country a good ten days beforehand. A strange little fellow I found him, too; his clothes, all lavender and purple with the strangest of cuts, were such as would draw attention in such a place, and the aroma of perfume that entered the room long before he did was quite unforgettable. Later, when he saw me in prison in the company of Lower, I could almost tell who my visitor was long before the gaoler opened the cell door; so strong was the smell he gave off.
But I took to him, odd though he was, and only later discerned that there was more to him than instant appraisal suggested. To meet, he was short and stout, with merry eyes and an easy laugh. Everything amused him, and everything attracted his interest. He said little, not being greatly proficient in English (though much better than I at first imagined) but sat quietly, bobbing his head and chuckling with appreciation at our conversation, as though he was hearing the best jokes in the world, and the wittiest of conversations.
Only once, during that first encounter, did I even have half a suspicion there might be more to him; when Sir William and I were talking, I saw a flash in his eyes, and the most fleeting glimpse of cunning pass across that chubby, harmless-looking face. But who pays attention to such details, when all else indicates the opposite? It was a trick of the light only, a reflection of the flames in the dimness of the room, and nothing more.
As he was unwilling, or unable, to play any manful part in the conversation, Sir William and I talked instead, and gradually almost forgot the presence of the foreigner in our midst. Sir William introduced him as a man with whom he had dealings in trade, for as Master of the Ordnance (his paltry reward for his labours on behalf of the king) he was thrown in contact with many foreign traders, and Cola’s father was, it seemed, a man of great power in such matters. Moreover, said Sir William, he and his family had been good friends to the great cause over the years, and now naturally wanted to supply some of those goods His Majesty needed.
I wished them both well, and hoped they would both profit from the association for, if Sir William’s position gave him little standing, it held out instead the probability of considerable wealth. A dedicated Master of the Ordnance, taking what bribes and profits came his way, could amass a considerable fortune in a short time by controlling the army’s supplies and Sir William was not wholly discontented with his position. He had, it must be said, greater need of money than honour at that time.
I suppose I can see why the presence of such a man would need to be kept discreetly quiet, although Cola’s delicacy in hiding such matters so long after the event strikes me as being excessively fine. For Sir William (as I have mentioned) was in dispute with My Lord Clarendon, and any man who angered the Lord Chancellor had to tread very carefully in the execution of his office. It mattered not that Clarendon had so joyously looted the Treasury himself since the moment the king returned; his enemies had to beware, for what was encouraged in Clarendon’s friends was used to tear down his enemies. The more he grew in isolation, the more the attacks on those who wished to be rid of him grew in violence. The most ordinary behaviour could be turned into a weapon, for Clarendon was not a lawyer for nothing. Taking the fruits of office could, in a twinkling of an eye, become bribery and corruption, and such matters have swept many an honest person from office.
‘And now, Jack,’ said Sir William after we had talked awhile, ‘you must allow me to say something in all seriousness. And do please listen until I have finished.’
I nodded.
‘You are, no doubt, all too aware of the great matter that passed between your father and myself. I would like to make it as clear that I in no wise associate you with those events, even though you are his son. You will always be welcome in this house and my acquaintance.’
Partisan of my father though I was, I was aware of the deep goodness of that statement, if it came from true sincerity. I was inclined to believe that it did, for he had not the guile to dissimulate well, nor the hardness of heart to toy so cruelly with another. This made him a loyal friend, and a bad conspirator. The simplicity of his own soul made him unsuspecting of base motives in others, and so made him the perfect instrument for those wishing to bend the truth to their own ends.
‘I thank you for those words,’ I replied. ‘I did not expect such a welcome from you. I was afraid that circumstances had engendered some bitterness between us.’
‘So they had,’ he replied seriously. ‘But that was an error on my part. I wanted you out of my sight, because I could not stand the reminder your presence brought me. I now see this was cruel. You have never done me harm, and have suffered more than anyone.’
His statement brought a tear of gratitude to my eyes, as it had been a long time since anyone had talked to me with such kindness. I knew the limits of his generosity, for he believed absolutely in my father’s guilt, and, oddly, found I honoured him the more for it. It is no easy business to embrace the child of a man who you think has done you such injury.
‘That is certainly true,’ I replied. ‘And I think I have been imposed on far more than was just. This is the cause of my visit. You were the trustee of my inheritance, and yet I have no inheritance. My lands are now in other hands, and my position is ruined. You may have considered that all bonds of loyalty between you and my father were dissolved, but your trust continued in that matter. So how is it that I am penniless now? I see from your face that this question disturbs you, and I do not in any way wish to level an accusation, but you must admit it is a fair question to ask.’
He nodded soberly. ‘It is, although my wonder is not that you ask, but that you do not know the answer already.’
‘It is my understanding that I have been left with nothing at all. Is that correct?’
‘Your fortune has been much diminished, it is true, but it has not been extinguished entirely. There is enough for you to rebuild, if you are industrious. And there is no place better for making a name than the Inns of Court, and no profession more suited for amassing wealth than the law. My Lord Clarendon’, he said with a smile of contempt, ‘has demonstrated that beyond contention.’
‘But the estate was sold, even though entailed. How could that be?’
‘Because your father insisted on assigning it as guarantee for his debts.’
‘He could not do that.’
‘No. But I could.’
I stared at him as he admitted this, and he looked uncomfortable at feeling my gaze rest on him.
‘I had no choice. Your father came to me and begged. He said it was my duty as a friend and a comrade to help him. Having tied up his lands so they could not be confiscated if he should come into misfortune, he discovered that he could not use them to raise money either. He absolutely insisted that I act on his behalf and authorise the loan. All I was required to do was sign the papers.’
‘And you did.’
‘I did. And later discovered he had not played absolutely fair with me. Or with his creditors, for he had raised several loans at the same time, pledging the estate many times over. After the débâcle, I found myself liable for the debts as trustee. Had I been a rich man myself, I perhaps could have assisted, but you know, I think, something of my situation. And, I must be frank, I was not in the humour to be generous at that time.’
‘So the estate was dissolved.’
‘No. Even so we did our best to keep it in your family. Your uncle bought it and I insisted on a clause that, should you ever be in a position to pay cash down, he would sell the land back to you. We also reached a settlement with the creditors; a generous settlement, I must say, for they accepted much less than they were owed; only some land was sold out of the family entire.’
?
??Including Harland Wyte, which will be the most valuable of all the land when it is drained. How come that was sold to the man who accused my father in the first place?’
Sir William looked surprised at the depth of my knowledge, and paused before he spoke again. ‘No,’ he said after a short while. ‘Sir Samuel did not act with great generosity of spirit, I must say, but we had little choice. You must remember that the revelations about your father were initially known to only a very few people and it was imperative to keep it so. The moment his creditors heard a whiff of the matter, they would have swooped immediately. We needed time and needed Morland to keep quiet. I regret to say that his consent was expensive. The sale of Harland Wyte at an advantageous price to him bought us eight weeks in which to act.’
I bowed my head in the greatest of sadness, for I did not doubt that he was telling me the absolute truth as he saw it. I was heartily glad of it; I had encountered so much duplicity in the past few months that I no longer expected to meet an honest man and, I fear, was over-inclined to harbour suspicions. In his way Sir William was betrayed every bit as much as my father had been, for his goodness had been perverted to evil ends. I knew that sooner or later I would have to tell him so, lay bare the whole scandalous history and confront him with what he had done in all innocence and with the very best of intentions. It concerned me, for I was afraid it would break his heart. And I also knew that I, as much as those evil men, would have to stoke up the fires of his wrath so that he would fight to correct the injustices in which he had participated.
It was not to my advantage to pursue the conversation much further that night; I did not wish to seem over-anxious and, in any case, I was desperately tired. Shortly after, then, I put on my cloak, picked up a candle and made my way from the warmth of the fire to the chamber I had always used. Presumably Sir William had roused out a servant when I arrived, for it was already prepared for me. There was even a small fire burning in the grate, although it gave out more consolation than warmth. I shivered in that cramped little room, but none the less gave thanks as I knelt down to pray that I was not in one of the great, cavernous chambers more honoured guests received. The Italian gentleman, I thought, would be suffering mightily that night. My devotions finished, and in that calm frame of mind which habitually comes over men of faith when they give thanks in true humility, I was in half a mind to wrap myself up as much as I could and get straight into the bed. But I was grimy from the journey and reluctantly decided to wipe my face first. A bowl of water had been placed on the chest by the great window and, after I had shuttered the casements tight, I cracked the thin layer of ice then plunged my face into the bitterly cold water.
Then I received a rude reminder of the hydra-headed nature of my woes. Even after so many years I cannot bring myself to write down the obscene images that were conjured up in that bowl of water, illuminated solely by the flickering candle on the chest. The lubricious and foul torments presented to me were such that only the most devoted slave of Lucifer could have imagined them; to send them forth to anguish the soul of a Christian after prayer was an act of the most profound evil. The noises that reverberated through my head as I found myself leaning heavily over that bowl, desperate to tear away my eyes yet unable to move a single muscle made me cry out with horror and terror. And yet (I confess) I was fascinated by the scenes I witnessed. Even the spirits of the pure and innocent were subjected to most violent depravity, and made to enjoy the abuse. I saw the image of my father – not he indeed, but a devil in his guise – stretched out as Sarah Blundy pleasured him in the most disgusting fashion imaginable. All sorts of demons cavorted lewdly in my sight, sure I was watching and relishing the torture they imposed. I could not speak, and could not move to take myself away from the foulness, because I was not prepared for it any more. I had grown weak, and believed that perhaps the assault was over, that perhaps the Blundy girl had relented, or given up her revenge. I now had all the evidence I needed that she had been merely preparing an ever more vicious attack. Nor, it seemed, did it involve only myself, if her diabolical master’s reach could torment those who should be beyond harm and impervious to pain.
It took the mightiest of efforts to tear myself away from that monstrous sight, to cast the bowl on to the floor and fling myself into the corner of the room, where I lay panting, unable to believe that it was all over. I lay there much of the night, I think, cowering in sheer terror lest it start again, and remained motionless until my limbs were stiff and my body icy with the cold. When I could stand it no more, and the pain overwhelmed my fear, I rose from my hiding place and spent some considerable time checking that the windows were firmly closed, and pulling the chest across the room so that the door was barred so tightly even the devil himself would have trouble gaining entry. Then I tried to sleep, afraid of the moment when the candle would finally gutter out. I had never been afraid of the dark before then. That night it terrified me.
Chapter Thirteen
* * *
I WAS STILL shaky from fear and lack of sleep when Marco da Cola engaged me in conversation the next morning. I was not greatly responsive, as I was very much preoccupied with the attack on me, but his persistent efforts eventually forced me to be as civil as possible. Looking at me with his twinkling eyes and smiling quite vacuously, he began by saying he understood that my father was Sir James Prestcott.
I fully expected that he was going to examine me on my father’s fall, so answered in the coldest manner I could. But, rather than adopting a grave and distressed face, typical of those who intend to patronise with their commiseration, he brightened considerably at my reply.
‘That is excellent, indeed,’ he said in an accent so thick he was barely comprehensible. ‘Truly excellent.’
He beamed with pleasure at me.
‘Might I enquire why you say so? It is not a response I have been used to, of late.’
‘Because I knew your most admirable father well, a few years ago. I was greatly saddened to hear of his misfortunes. You must allow me to offer you my most sincere condolences on the loss of a man who must have been a perfect father.’
‘That he was, and I thank you,’ I said. I had taken a dislike to the foppish little foreigner, for such people are highly distasteful to me in ordinary circumstances. In this case, I was aware that my opinion needed revision. There were few people kind enough even to acknowledge an acquaintance with my father, let alone to praise him.
‘You must tell me how you met him,’ I said. ‘I know nothing of that time when he was out of the country, except that he was forced to sell his services as a soldier.’
‘He sold them to Venice,’ Cola replied, ‘which was grateful for them, for he was a brave man. If more people were like him then the Ottoman would not be threatening the very heart of Europe.’
‘So he was valued by your state? I am glad of it.’
‘Highly. And he was as popular with the officers as he was with the men; he was gallant but never foolhardy. When he decided to return to his home those of us who wished your king well consoled ourselves that our loss would be your sovereign’s gain. I find it difficult to believe that the man I knew could act meanly in any way.’
‘You must not believe all the information you hear,’ I assured him. ‘I am persuaded that my father was the victim of an abominable crime. With luck, I will soon have the proof of it.’
‘I am glad,’ Cola said. ‘Truly glad. Nothing would give me greater pleasure.’
‘You were a soldier yourself?’
He hesitated a moment before replying to my question. ‘I have trained in medicine in recent years, among other things,’ he said. ‘A most unmilitary occupation. And I occupy myself mainly with questions of curiosity. I admired your father greatly, but have never had much affection for his profession.’
And the little man walked off, leaving me to give thanks that my father’s character was such that it invariably left a favourable impression on those who encountered him, when they were unaffected by the po
ison of rumour.
Sir William had already left the house; he was an assiduous governor of his estate, believing firmly that it was his obligation to see to such matters himself. Besides, he always enjoyed it and would have been the happier had he devoted himself entirely to country pursuits. The profits of the court, however, could not be resisted, and at least four times a year he had to go to London to oversee his office. But the rest of the time he was in Warwickshire and nearly every day, whatever the weather, he would collect one or two of his favourite hounds and leave the house early in the morning, to pay calls, give advice and issue orders. Around noon he would return, red-faced from the exercise, radiating contentment and satisfaction before eating and taking a nap. In the evening he would see to the paperwork which any estate of size generates, and check his wife’s governance of the household. This routine he repeated without variation every day, and I believe that every day he went to bed and slept soundly, confident of having blamelessly fulfilled all his many obligations. His life was, in my opinion, most completely admirable and content, as long as no unwelcome intrusion disturbed its placid rhythm.
Because of this I was unable to engage him in further conversation until that evening, when, his business done, he became once more the genial host. It was Cola, once Lady Compton had withdrawn, who brought up the subject of my father’s innocence. Sir William instantly looked very distressed indeed at the remark.
‘I beg you, Jack,’ he said sadly, ‘put this matter behind you. You should know that it was I who received the evidence of your father’s guilt, and I can assure you on my life that I would not have acted had I not been totally convinced. It was the worst day of my life; I would have been a happier man had I died before I discovered that secret.’