The logic was… something only a man like Charles I could follow.
"We mustn't be filled with rancor," admonished the bishop. "It borders on sin."
Strafford shifted his shoulders, and clasped hands behind his back. "No… you're right, of course. But that doesn't require me to like the man." It was unclear, even to himself, which man he was talking about-the future duke of Albemarle, or the present king of England.
He decided that was a thought best left unpursued. Turning his head a bit, he added: "In any event, I saw no reason for George Monck, son of a minor landowner in Devonshire, to become a duke in this… what would you call it, William? History? World? Universe?"
Laud shrugged, somewhat uncomfortably. "That's for God alone to understand. Fully, at least. I simply think of it-" He made a little gesture with his hand, indicating everything around him. "This world, that is, as the true one. That other, as God's image to us of falseness."
Strafford barked a laugh. "Easy for you to say! You aren't the one who meets with Lady Mailey and tries to explain to her exactly how their stay in the Tower is a 'courtesy.' I assure you, William, if the lady herself is false, her brains certainly aren't."
"She's not a 'lady!' " snapped Laud. "Nothing but a commoner." The little bishop's face, habitually red to begin with, was flushed brighter than usual. Like many people born to common stock-Laud's father had been a draper-he tended to be even more sensitive than noblemen on the subject of "good breeding."
Strafford started to make a retort, but held it back. They were now verging on a subject which was one of the few-perhaps the only one-that Thomas Wentworth could not discuss with William Laud, for all that they were good friends. William, and Bishop Laud, were one and the same man. The earl of Strafford, and Thomas Wentworth, were… not quite.
His eyes moved toward the Tower, which, though he could not see it directly, he could imagine in his mind.
No, William-she is a 'lady.' If that name means anything beyond a mere title. I've met her; you haven't. She has a poise, a self-confidence, a sureness of self, that would be the envy of any duchess.
The image of Queen Henrietta Maria came to him, a giddy Frenchwoman married to an English king who, in his own way, was perhaps even giddier. Or a queen, for that matter. And the young sister of her ruler who came with her bids fair to do the same, if I don't miss my guess.
"How do they do it?" he murmured.
"What was that?"
Strafford shook his head. "Nothing, William. Just talking to myself."
The bishop chuckled. "Bad habit, that. Best you rein in it before it takes you over."
"Aye." Wentworth-no, the earl of Strafford-tightened his clasped hands. "Aye. Our course is clear."
He turned away from the window then. But not before, in a last flash of imagery, seeing the figure of Oliver Cromwell huddled in a cell. And remembering something else he'd read in those books. A line from a letter which would have once been written by that same prisoner, appealing to his opponents.
I beseech you in the bowels of Christ-think it possible you may be mistaken.
"You made a mistake!" squealed Nan, clapping her hands. "Look, everyone-Papa made a mistake! He played the wrong card!"
"Hush, child," scolded Wentworth's wife Elizabeth. "Your father's just preoccupied with affairs of state, that's why he made the mistake." The young woman-at nineteen, barely more than a girl-smiled shyly at her new forty-year-old husband. "He's a very important man, you know."
Strafford returned the smile. And genuinely, not simply as a matter of courtesy. He was pleased to see that his daughter Nan had accepted the reproof in good spirits. Indeed, she was smiling fondly at her stepmother. Elizabeth, as he had hoped, was proving to be very good with the children.
That thought brought sadness, for a moment. He was fond of his new wife, true enough. But he knew she would never be able to replace Arabella in his affections. His former wife had been… special.
A flash of memory came to him. That horrible time in York, less than two years ago, when Arabella had died. They'd gone there to escape the plague which had been ravaging England in the summer of 1631. He could still remember-he thought he'd never be able to forget-the moment when it all happened.
Arabella, pregnant with their fifth child, rising to greet him with a smile as he came in from the garden… brushing an insect off her clothing… the creature suddenly spreading its wings and flying in her face… she tripped, fell, he couldn't reach her in time…
She'd died soon after. October 5, 1631, a date he would always hate with a passion.
"Why are you so sad all of sudden, Papa?" asked Nan. "It wasn't really a bad mistake. And it's just a game anyway."
He forced the melancholy into a corner of his mind, and bestowed a reassuring smile upon his family gathered about the table. More for Elizabeth's sake, really, than his daughter's. Nan had been too young to really remember her mother-not more than four, when she died. Will, not much older.
His young wife Elizabeth, on the other hand, was painfully aware that she was trying to take the place of a woman for whom Thomas Wentworth, now earl of Strafford, had felt a deep and passionate love. And however much Strafford sometimes found Arabella's memory overwhelming, he was determined not to inflict that grief upon Elizabeth. True, the girl had little of Arabella's gaiety and quick intelligence. Elizabeth was, in every respect, a typical daughter of a country squire, with little of his former wife's sophistication. But he'd married her so soon after Arabella's death for the sake of the children, and Elizabeth had proven as good a stepmother as he could have asked for. He owed her kindness and consideration, at the very least.
"It's as your mother said," he explained. "I'm just a bit distracted by… problems of government." The last three words were accompanied by a vague wave of the hand.
"You should just do the right thing," his five-year-old daughter stated firmly. Nan, as always, made her proclamations with the surety of an empress. "Then you won't be sad, no matter what else. That's what you always say to me."
Strafford chuckled. "Oh, and aren't you the little tyrant? I can remember how you used to drive the workmen half-mad, marching up and down the planks while they were adding the new wing to the house. 'Do this, do that.' Four years old, you were."
Nan looked as dignified as a girl still short of her sixth birthday could possibly manage. "They were slacking off, now and then," she proclaimed. "People should do the right thing."
Later that evening, after the children had been taken to bed, Elizabeth rose from the table. Somewhat timidly, she asked: "Are you retiring for the night, husband?"
Abruptly, Strafford shook his head. "No, dearest. I was planning to, but… there's a matter I must attend to. Now. It'll keep me awake through the night if I don't."
He rose, then hesitated. "Don't wait up for me. I won't be back for hours. It's a ways to the Tower."
"Have the cell cleaned thoroughly. Provide him with some decent bedding. Good rations. Exercise, once a day. Keep him chained and manacled whenever he's outside the cell, but remove the fetters while he's in it."
The Yeoman Warder in charge of the detail nodded. "Aye, sir."
Strafford gave him a stony look. "No slacking off, mind. I want him guarded more closely than ever."
"Aye, sir."
"Leave, then. I want a moment alone with the prisoner."
"Aye, sir." The Yeoman Warder bowed and backed out of the cell. Strafford turned toward the dark shape in the corner and lifted his taper. A strong nose came into the light.