Thurloe was not alone that morning, because a thin, stoop-shouldered mathematician – surveyor called William Leybourn was visiting him. Chaloner had met Leybourn the previous winter, and they had become friends. Leybourn owned a bookshop on Monkwell Street near Cripplegate, and Chaloner had spent many happy hours browsing his collection while listening to him expound all manner of complex and mostly incomprehensible geometrical theories.
‘Who are you?’ demanded Leybourn when Chaloner started to walk inside. He tried to haul his sword from its scabbard, although as usual he had not bothered to oil it, and it stuck halfway out. Leybourn always claimed that time spent on maintaining weapons was time that could be better spent reading. ‘What do you want?’
Thurloe came to stand next to him, and his normally sombre face broke into a rare smile when he recognised the grey eyes. ‘Thomas is playing a game with us.’
Leybourn’s jaw dropped, then he started to laugh, amused by the fact that he had been fooled. ‘Is this for our benefit, or do you have another perilous mission to fulfil for Lord Clarendon?’
‘I would never wear this wretched thing for fun,’ said Chaloner, indicating the wig. It was hot and itched in a way that made him sure it was host to a legion of lice. He said what was uppermost in his mind as he pushed past the surveyor and went to warm his hands by the fire. ‘Have you seen Temperance recently?’
‘I am a married man, so her establishment is anathema to me,’ said Thurloe distastefully. ‘I would never visit her there, although she comes to pass the time of day with me here on occasion. I am pleased to see colour in the poor child’s cheeks at last.’
‘She is blooming,’ agreed Leybourn cheerfully, struggling to replace his sword in its sticky scabbard. ‘And I have visited Hercules’s Pillars Alley on several occasions. She runs an excellent show, although it can grow a little wild in the small hours. She has promised to introduce me to a few decent ladies, because I do not have much luck with the fairer sex, and I would like to be married.’
‘I doubt you will find a suitable match among the women in Temperance’s employ,’ said Thurloe disapprovingly. ‘I know you are not particular, but there should be limits to how low you are willing to stoop, and a bordello – even an elegant one – should be well beneath them. You would do better frequenting funerals, and keeping an eye out for a respectable widow.’
Chaloner rubbed his eyes tiredly. ‘I am gone three months and return to find the world turned upside-down. Temperance has become a madam, Will is trawling brothels for a wife, and you are dispensing some of the worst advice I have ever heard.’
Thurloe was stung. ‘My advice is perfectly sound. He is likely to meet a better class of person in a church than in a bawdy house. However, if you have a better suggestion, then let us hear it.’
‘Temperance’s place is not just a bawdy house,’ said Leybourn, giving up the battle to replace his sword in its scabbard and giving it to Chaloner to sort out. ‘Men visit her for witty conversation, too. It is like a coffee house that admits women, and not all its patrons are desperate for a whore. Do not tell her you disapprove, Tom. She thinks the world of you, and it would be a pity to spoil her happiness.’
‘She could be arrested,’ said Chaloner unhappily. ‘Prostitution is illegal, and so is owning a brothel.’
‘This one should be safe enough,’ said Leybourn. ‘It is already popular with influential courtiers like Buckingham, York and Bristol. And once word is out that they visit the place, it is only a matter of time before others patronise it, too, to show they are men of fashion. Buckingham took Lady Castlemaine one night, and an excellent evening was had by all.’
‘Christ!’ muttered Chaloner. It was not that he disapproved of bawdy houses – on the contrary, they were useful places for collecting information, and for relaxing with women he did not want to meet again – but it felt sordid when Temperance was involved.
‘You have grown thin,’ said Thurloe in the silence that followed. Chaloner did not believe him, knowing the ex-Spymaster could not tell what he looked like under the layers of powder and grease. ‘So, I shall provide you with breakfast. My servant is ill, and has gone to stay with his sister, so I am obliged to order victuals from the kitchens myself these days.’
‘I came to keep him company,’ said Leybourn, when Thurloe had gone to collect the food. ‘You know how he likes to walk in the Inn’s grounds each morning, as dawn breaks? Well, there are plans afoot to remodel them in a way that will make this a thing of the past. He is very upset about it.’
‘There have been rumours about a new garden for as long as I can remember,’ said Chaloner, ‘but the benchers are united in their opposition to change, and since they are the ruling council, they have the final word on the matter. Nothing will happen to Thurloe’s orchard.’
‘That is no longer true. William Prynne, who is Lincoln’s Inn’s most famous bencher–’
‘A deranged bigot,’ interrupted Chaloner. He had met the elderly lawyer several times, and had been deeply repelled. ‘He writes bitter diatribes on matters he does not understand – The Quakers Unmasked was so sickeningly poisonous that I could not put it down. Appalled disbelief kept me turning its pages.’
Leybourn laughed. ‘That is how I feel about some of the pamphlets the government asks me to print about mathematics. But Prynne’s literary talents are irrelevant. The point is that he marched into White Hall, told the King what he wanted, and His Majesty was so taken aback by his effrontery that he signed a letter ordering Lincoln’s Inn to see the plans though. The foundation is in the unenviable position of either defying its King or going against its own wishes.’
‘Surely they can find a way to procrastinate until Prynne loses interest? These are lawyers, Will – making a lot of fuss while actually doing nothing is what they are trained to do.’
‘Not with Prynne sending daily reports to White Hall about progress, or lack of it. The gardens mean a lot to Thurloe – he loves those old trees – and Prynne’s project will see them all uprooted.’
‘You are talking about my orchard,’ said Thurloe, as he returned. Behind him was the Inn’s tabby cat, and a servant carrying a tray. ‘Have you heard what Prynne intends to replace it with? An expanse of plain grass, crossed by two paths with a dovecote in the middle. It will be as barren as a desert – and the dovecote is not for decoration, but so the hapless birds can be bred for the table. I will feed them in the morning, only to have them grace my dinner plate at noon. Damned Puritan!’
Chaloner and Leybourn gazed at him in surprise. Thurloe was a deeply religious man who seldom swore – and he was a devout adherent to Puritan principles himself. He was about to continue his tirade when the servant gave a howl of anger; the cat had jumped on to the table he was setting, and had made off with a piece of salted pork.
‘What do the staff think about Prynne’s designs, Yates?’ asked Thurloe, waving a hand to indicate the cat was to be left alone with its prize. ‘Do they approve?’
‘We are afraid that a great square containing nothing but grass will take a lot of scything in the summer, sir,’ replied Yates. He was a small, lean fellow, unremarkable except for pale-brown eyes that roved independently of each other. At that precise moment, one was fixed balefully on the cat, and the other was looking at Thurloe. ‘Mr Prynne said the labour will be good for our souls.’