He was not one of these effeminate apologies for gentry whom we see strutting and mincing their way through the court these days. He eschewed fine clothes (although he was fine looking when he chose) and was disdainful of books. Nor was he a great conversationalist, idling away his hours in talk when practical things were to be done. A soldier, in short, and no man was ever grander in leading a charge. He was lost in the welter of backstabbing and conspiracy that the courtier must master; too honest to dissimulate, too frank ever to win favor. It marked him out, and if it was a fatal flaw, I cannot consider he was diminished by it. His fidelity to his wife was as pure as a poet could imagine, and his courage a byword in the army. He was at his happiest at Harland House, our main seat in Lincolnshire, and when he left it he was as grieved as if his wife had died. And rightly so, for the land at Harland Wyte had been in our family for generations; it was our family, you might say, and he knew and loved every square inch of it.
The sight of his soul in such distress rekindled my enthusiasm for my task, as it was clear it was tormented by the injustice he still suffered. So, when I had sufficiently recovered my strength, I concocted a story about the illness of an aunt from whom I had expectations to gain my tutor’s permission to leave town, and set off one bright morning for Windsor. I coached as far as Reading, as the university has no monopoly on the route and prices are affordable, and then walked the remaining fifteen miles. I slept in a field, as it was still just warm enough and I did not wish to spend unnecessarily, but breakfasted in a tavern in the town, so I could brush myself down and wipe my face and present a reasonably proper appearance. I also learned from the keeper that Lord Mordaunt—whom I discovered was bitterly detested in the town for his lack of extravagance—was indeed in residence as warden of the castle, having returned only three days before from Tunbridge Wells.
There was no point in dallying; having come so far, it would have been foolish indeed to hesitate. As Thomas had said, a refusal was the worst I could suffer. So I marched boldly to the castle, then spent the next three hours sitting in an anteroom while my request for an audience was conveyed through an army of lackeys.
I was grateful for my breakfast, as it was well past dinnertime before I received any response. In the interval I marched up and down, awaiting the condescension of the mighty, vowing that I would never behave in such a way to those seeking my patronage when my fortune turned. A promise, I must say, I broke the moment I had the opportunity to do so, as by then I understood the purpose of all this attending—it establishes the proper boundaries, creates a due deference amongst those seeking favors and (most practically) discourages all but the most serious. And eventually my reward came when a servant, more cordial now than before, opened the door with ceremony, bowed and said that Lord Mordaunt would grant me an interview. If I would come this way…
I had hoped that simple curiosity, at least, would prompt just such a response and was glad that my guess had proven correct. It was not often, I imagine, that anyone had the presumption to present himself on the noble gentleman’s doorstep in such a fashion.
I knew little of the man whom I had traveled to see, except that all expected him to become a figure of great consequence in the government, a Secretary of State at the very least, and soon to improve his barony to a full earldom because of his favor with Lord Clarendon, the Lord Chancellor and the most powerful man in the land. He was a brave plotter on the king’s behalf, a man of great fortune from one of the highest families in the land, with a notably virtuous wife and the sort of good looks that makes any man a place. His devotion to the king’s service was all the more remarkable since his family had kept out of the struggle as much as possible, and were masters at not committing themselves and emerging with their fortunes intact. Mordaunt himself was said to be cautious in advice, but bold when needful, and disinclined to faction and petty squabbling. This was the surface appearance of the man, at least. His only weakness was impatience and an abrupt way of dealing with those he considered incompetent—but that was a great flaw, for there were many such at court, and even more who wished ill on any friend of Clarendon.
I approached through a series of rooms until eventually I was led into his presence—a grand and, in my mind, unnecessarily pompous proceeding. At least the final room was small and commodious enough, a bureau stacked with piles of paper and shelves of books. I made my bow and waited for him to address me first.
“I gather you are the son of Sir James Prestcott, is that correct?”
I nodded. Lord Mordaunt was a man of medium height, with a well-formed face spoiled only by a nose disproportionately small. His figure was fine, especially in the legs, his movements gracious and, however grand the ceremony of introduction, he cast that aside the moment that the interview began, and engaged in the most amiable conversation which gave the lie to rumors of his pride and haughtiness. I came away admiring the man for his sagacity; he seemed a worthy comrade in arms for my father, and I believed that each had been equally honored by the trust and love of the other. The contrast with a man like Thurloe could not be greater, I thought—the one tall, fair and open, like a Roman of old in bearing and manner, the other certainly wizened and twisted, operating in the dark, never doing anything in the open, always using the instruments of deceit.
“An unusual approach, verging on the discourteous,” he commented severely. “I imagine you must have a good reason.”
“The very best, my lord,” I said. “I greatly regret troubling you, but I have no one else to turn to. You alone can help me, if you will. I can offer nothing in return, but my needs are small. I want a little of your time; that is all.”
“You cannot be so foolish as to expect preferment. I could not help you in that regard.”
“I came to talk to people who knew my father. To clear his honor of stain.”
He considered this remark fully, digesting all the implications it contained, before he replied, gently but cautiously. “That is commendable in a son, and understandable in a child whose fortune depends on it. But I think you will have an uphill struggle.”
In the past, my tendency when faced with such remarks was to erupt into a burning rage, during which I would voice all manner of angry ripostes; as a youth I returned home with many a black eye and bloody nose. But I knew such behavior would not help here—I wanted help, and that could only be obtained through politeness and deference. So I choked back my anger, and maintained a serene countenance.
“It is a struggle I must undertake. I believe my father was innocent of all wrong, but I do not even know what he was accused of doing. It is my right to know, and my duty to repudiate the accusations.”
“Your family, surely…”
“They know little, and tell less. Forgive me for interrupting, sir. But I need to know at first hand what transpired. As you were one of the key figures in His Majesty’s great trust, and are reputed for your fairness, I thought to approach you first of all.”
A little delicate flattery often oils the wheels of converse, I find; even when it is recognized for what it is, such comments show a recognition of indebtedness. The only requirement is that the compliments be not too coarse, and do not jar on the ear too loudly.
“Do you think my father was guilty?”
Mordaunt considered the question, still with a faint air of surprise on his face that the discussion was taking place at all. He made me wait a long time so that the kindness he did me was fully appreciated before he sat down, then indicated he would permit me to sit also.