Next to Bristol, his face an aloof, impassive mask, was Joseph Williamson, head of the country’s secret service. Before the Earl of Clarendon had offered him work, Chaloner had entertained hopes of being hired by Williamson. He had been a spy for a decade – a long time in an occupation so fraught with danger – and was an accomplished intelligence officer. The only problem was that those ten years had been in the service of Oliver Cromwell’s government, and Williamson was naturally suspicious of agents who had been employed by the King’s enemies; the fact that Chaloner had only ever plied his skills against foreign powers, and had certainly never spied on the King, was deemed immaterial. Williamson wanted nothing to do with him, and Chaloner was lucky Lord Clarendon was prepared to overlook his past.
At the top of the stairs, the King offered his Queen a solicitous hand across the treacherous carpet of hailstones, although Chaloner thought there was scant affection in the gesture. There was, however, a great deal of fondness in the arm he proffered to Lady Castlemaine. The royal paramour wore a triumphant smirk as she strutted inside, head held high. When she had gone, the King and Queen turned to salute the assembled masses together. The King had insisted on doing this, despite rumours that someone might try to assassinate him that day, because he liked to think of himself as a man of the people. He had even declared a public holiday, so work would not prevent the citizens of London from coming to see him.
The citizens were mostly elsewhere that inhospitable Friday morning, however, and the ‘crowd’ that had gathered to watch him ride from White Hall to Westminster Abbey was pitifully small. There was a smattering of merchants representing various city companies, along with a few Royalist fanatics who were always present at such occasions, and a gaggle of beggars who hoped someone might throw them some coins. When the King had returned from exile three years before, London’s streets had been packed with cheering, jubilant supporters, and Chaloner was amazed that Charles and his Court had managed to alienate the population quite so completely within such a short period of time.
Knowing a lost cause when he saw one, the King disappeared inside the church almost before he had finished the royal salute, but the Queen lingered. Chaloner raised his hand in greeting, because he thought a raker would probably do so, and was surprised when she waved back. It was the second time she had smiled at him since his arrival in England a few months earlier, and he was oddly touched.
‘There is no need to go overboard,’ snapped Adrian May, the agent with whom Chaloner had been assigned to work that day. ‘And while you leer at the Queen, an assassin might be priming his gun.’
Chaloner resisted the urge to point out that an assassin could prime all he liked, but the King was now inside the building, and so safe from danger. He nodded noncommittally, reluctant to quarrel.
May was a thickset man with a smooth bald head and a vast collection of wigs to cover it; Chaloner had never seen him with the same hairpiece twice. That day he sported a cheap grey one, because he was in disguise as an abbey verger. May not only held high rank in the government’s fledgling intelligence service, but was a Groom of the King’s Privy Chamber, too. Combined, these made him an influential figure in the world of British espionage. Sadly, he had scant aptitude for the business, and Chaloner disliked both him and his dangerous incompetence intensely.
Meanwhile, May disapproved of Chaloner because he had been away from England for so long that he was a virtual stranger in the country of his birth – after the civil wars, Chaloner had completed his studies at Cambridge and Lincoln’s Inn, then had immediately been assigned duties overseas. He had returned to England after the collapse of Cromwell’s regime, only to find himself regarded with suspicion and distrust by almost everyone he met. And May’s suspicion and distrust were the most fervent of all.
Pushing his antipathy towards May to the back of his mind, Chaloner began another circuit of the abbey, plying his broom as he went. Hailstones cracked under his feet, although the storm had abated and the deluge had dwindled to a hearty drizzle. May grabbed his arm and stopped him.
‘How many more times are you going to walk around?’ he demanded. ‘Williamson’s informant said the assassination attempt would be made during the procession – and the procession is now over. After a few prayers, everyone will go his own separate way, and the King’s life will be the responsibility of the palace guard again.’
‘He still has to come out, though,’ said Chaloner, too experienced to be complacent. ‘And that will be an ideal time to attack.’
‘But we have already searched for lurking killers,’ argued May, falling into step beside him. Chaloner wished he would go away – real vergers would not keep company with rakers and any would-be regicide with a modicum of sense would know it. ‘The streets are clear. Besides, there are a dozen threats on His Majesty’s life each week, and few ever amount to anything. We are wasting our time.’
‘You just said an assassin might be priming his gun,’ Chaloner pointed out, unwilling to let him have it both ways.
May’s voice became mocking. ‘I suppose the great Spymaster Thurloe taught you to be ever cautious. However, a good agent knows which threats are real and which are hoaxes, and only a fool treats them with equal seriousness.’
Chaloner did not reply. John Thurloe, who had masterminded Cromwell’s highly efficient intelligence network, had taught him his skills, and his decade-long survival was testament to the fact that he had learned them well – too well to be cavalier about matters as serious as threats to the King’s safety.
May grimaced in annoyance when Chaloner declined to discuss the matter. ‘You are not very talkative today. What is wrong with you?’
Chaloner pointed to St Margaret’s Church, a handsome building of pale-yellow stone that stood between the abbey and Westminster Hall. ‘See that beggar? He has been loitering in that porch for the last hour. Perhaps the threat of assassination is real after all.’
Rain pattered in the mud as May regarded Chaloner in astonishment. The deluge had turned his wig into a mass of sodden strands that reeked of horse, and his shoes squelched as he walked. An explosion of laughter came from a group of palace guards, who were waiting to escort the King back to White Hall. Their leader, Colonel Holles, hastened to silence them, afraid they would disturb the ceremonies inside the abbey. Meanwhile, May’s surprise at Chaloner’s statement turned to disdain.
‘It has been pouring all morning and beggars shelter where they can. As I said, you must learn to distinguish between real menaces and imagined ones, Heyden. You are a fool if you see anything sinister in that fellow’s presence.’
Tom Heyden was Chaloner’s usual alias, and only a handful of people knew his real identity – because he was kin to one of the fifty-nine men who had signed Charles I’s death warrant, Chaloner was a name best kept from Royalist ears. The older Chaloner had died of natural causes shortly after the Restoration, but there were still plenty of Cavaliers who would be delighted to wreak revenge on a member of his family. It was unfortunate, but there was not much Chaloner could do about it, except wait for the righteous anger to cool.