Not throttling the man, however, did not mean being delicate with him. Strafford had been expecting this quarrel, and was ready for it.
"Don't be an imbecile, William. Even you must understand that the new situation requires us to set aside your plans for reforming the church. Plans which, I might add, were the single most prominent cause of the revolution which took place"-his hand groped in midair-"in that other history."
He matched the bishop's glare with one of his own. "Damn all zealots, anyway! You and your meddling with the Scots once you became archbishop-ruin, that's what it brought. Would have brought, but not now. And I so told the king, and told him firmly."
He stalked over to a chair and threw himself into it. "And His Majesty agrees, so there's an end to it. There will be no meddling with the Scots and their Presbyterian obsessions. Leave them alone, William. Leave those thick-headed half-barbarous clansmen to their own quarrels and feuds. Stir them up-as you did, in another time-and they'll become the hammer to the Puritan anvil."
May as well get all of it over with, he told himself firmly. He was expecting a complete rupture with Laud. That would sadden him, personally, but-so what? It had saddened him to see such a man as Oliver Cromwell rotting in a dungeon also. The needs of the state remained.
"And the same for Ireland. Leave the Old English there in peace with their papist idolatries, and Ireland will be a bastion for royalism. Stir them up, and we'll have another rebellion to contend with."
Laud was starting to splutter, but Strafford's strong voice overrode his protests.
"Damnation, William! Is it impossible for you to see your hand in front of your face? Did you read the books?"
"And why should we trust them?" shrilled Laud. "For all we know, those books were created by the Satanists themselves-or they're French forgeries." The bishop's eyes narrowed. "You met the witch yourself, earlier this day. Surely you could smell the stench of abomination."
Strafford burst out laughing. "The 'witch?' Which one, William? The one by the name of Melissa-who, I must tell you, is as fine looking an older woman as any duchess in Europe? Or the young one by the name of Rita? Who is as obviously a prince's young sister, uncertain of her role but determined to carry it out, as any infanta of Spain?"
He sat up straight, shaking his head. "There was no stench, William. Put that aside, man. You don't even believe it yourself-the whole notion smacks of village superstition. Is Satan so powerful he can create a new universe? Nonsense. Wherever these people came from, it was not the Pit. On that issue, if nothing else, I am inclined to agree with Richelieu. They are not personally evil. Indeed, it is that very lack of personal wickedness which drives home all the more strongly God's warning to us: let this madness unfold, and even the best will be encompassed in the ruin."
As always, theological questions were able to distract Laud as nothing else could. The bishop's scowl remained, but it became more one of thought than simple outrage. "You cannot trust a papist cardinal to reason properly, Thomas, never think it. Ours, here in England, is the only true catholic church. Still…"
He resumed his pacing. "I will admit that Richelieu's reasoning-in this instance-has substance to it. Still…"
He stopped his pacing, spun around, and extended a beseeching hand. "Can't you see what you're doing? For all intents and purposes, you are adopting the policies of-of-them." His lips pursed, as if he'd eaten a lemon. "Religious toleration. Let every fool in the land set himself up as if he were a bishop."
Strafford laughed again. " 'Them?' The colonial Satanists, you mean?"
Laud seemed to have calmed down enough for Strafford to have hopes of preventing a complete rupture. He arose, went over to his old friend, and put an arm around the smaller man's shoulder.
"I did not say we must forever abandon our plans for reform of the church, William. Nor, I can assure you, do I share the foolish belief of these 'Americans' that religious toleration is some kind of principle."
Not, he added sourly to himself, that a heavy dose of it wouldn't be of benefit to the world's statesmen. Idiots!
"But even the Son of God required three days to return from the dead, after all. We can't do everything at once, William. Without a king to serve as the anchor, an established church is impossible-you know that as well as I do. So will you allow me the freedom to do as I must to ensure the survival of the throne? Or-"
His tone hardened, as did the grip of the large hand on the bishop's shoulder. "Or will you enroll yourself in the ranks of my enemies? Choose, William. Choose now. His Majesty has seen fit to bestow the task upon me, and I will not shirk from the duty. Not for anything, including friendship or personal sentiment."
Laud's shoulder stiffened. Then, slumped.
"Oh, not that, Thomas. An 'enemy'? Never that."
"Good." Strafford used the hand on the shoulder to steer Laud into a nearby chair. "That settled, old friend, I could use your advice and guidance. The Lord knows I could use your energy and discipline."
After both men were settled, Strafford pushed the advantage. "Besides, look at all the bright spots. With the money the French are showering on us, I can afford to hire some real soldiers. For once, the king of England will be able to bare some real teeth."
"Not French soldiers," hissed Laud. "Let those swine onto the island…"
Strafford laughed. "Was I born yesterday? The cardinal's envoy made the offer, of course-indeed, he even raised the possibility of Spanish troops, if you can believe it."
Laud's face turned bright red. "Spanish troops!" he screeched.
Strafford, still chuckling, waved his hand. "Rest easy, William. There's this much good came out of the madness on the Continent. After fifteen years of warfare, there are thousands-tens of thousands-of experienced English mercenaries, any of whom would be delighted to return to England and serve under their own king's colors."
Laud was not quite done with his glowering. "A scandalous lot. Soldiers-for-hire. Sinners."
Wentworth shrugged. "Frankly, all the better. They'll hardly care about the fine sentiments of Parliament, now will they?"
He rose and went to a window, overlooking the great city. Then, completed his conversion of the bishop.
"They'll certainly not be given to tenderness dealing with the Trained Bands of London."
Mention of the militia of England's capital, that body of artisans and apprentices who had caused so much grief and disturbance over the years to England's monarchs and bishops, brought Laud to his own feet.
"Crush the rabble!"
Strafford clasped his hands behind his back, and straightened his shoulders. Then, gazing serenely down at the dark streets of London:
"Oh, I intend to. Be sure of it, William."
Some time later, over a much more convivial meal, Laud inquired as to the fate of the new prisoner in the Tower.
Strafford's face darkened a bit. "Tomorrow, I shall try again to convince the king to have Cromwell beheaded. Pym, too, once the soldiers bring him to the Tower. And Hampden, if we can catch him. But…"
"He's an indecisive man by nature, Thomas."
The king's new prime-minister-in-all-but-name shook his head glumly, thinking about the king he served. "Worse than that, really. Indecisive in big things, stubborn in small ones. I think he has vague notions-probably put there by his wife-of having some sort of grand spectacle of a trial at a later date. When he can haul all of his enemies out of the Tower and put them up for display."