The Banqueting House gallery – a raised wooden structure that allowed observers to look down on the floor below – was so full that Chaloner wondered whether it was in danger of collapse. Between the jostling onlookers, he caught glimpses of a table laden with gleaming silver dishes and platters. The King’s dark wig bobbed this way and that as he conversed with his fellow diners. His Queen sat beside him, although she ate little, and seemed more interested in watching the flirtatious antics of Lady Castlemaine than in doing justice to the splendid repast that lay in front of her.
It was difficult to see much, so the Earl, becoming bored, began to ask questions about Chaloner’s recent visit to Ireland. Chaloner tried to point out that a crowded gallery was not the best place for a briefing about such a sensitive matter, but the Earl dismissed his concerns with a wave of his hand.
‘You arrived home five days ago, but when you gave me your initial report, I was preoccupied with a nasty remark Bristol had made about me. Tell me again. What did you say the Castle Plot was about? Discontented soldiers, who had bought estates during the Commonwealth, but who had had them confiscated when we Royalists returned to power?’
Chaloner nodded as he glanced around him. No one seemed to be listening. ‘The disinherited farmers took exception to the ruling, so they decided to storm Dublin Castle and kidnap the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland – hold him to ransom until their land was returned.’
‘But unfortunately for them, the plot was doomed, because Spymaster Williamson had wind of it months ago. He sent secret agents to infiltrate the rebels, and I lent him your services because he needed all the intelligencers he could get – even ones who once worked for Cromwell. Did you tell me William Scot was among the government’s army of spies, or did I hear it from someone else?’
‘Someone else,’ replied Chaloner, a little indignantly. He was not in the habit of braying about his colleagues’ exploits to those who did not need to know about them, and Scot was a friend. Not only had they known each other since childhood, but both had been in Thurloe’s pay during the Commonwealth, and Scot’s father, like Chaloner’s uncle, had been a regicide. Wisely, Scot had taken the precaution of changing sides before Cromwell had died, so was not regarded with the same suspicion as was Chaloner, and he was currently in Spymaster Williamson’s employ.
‘May told Williamson that the revolt failed because of the ingenuity of one man: May himself,’ the Earl went on. ‘Scot’s brother Thomas was one of the conspirators, and it was May who persuaded Thomas to betray his fellow rebels. The affair ended with a whimper, and no lives were lost on our side.’
Chaloner nodded cautiously. The plan to ‘turn’ Thomas had actually been Scot’s, although the notion had been mooted in such a way that May genuinely believed it was his own. It had allowed Scot to save his brother from a traitor’s death, while simultaneously protecting himself from any later accusations of favouritism towards a kinsman. May, of course, had been more than happy to take the credit that should, by rights, have gone to Scot.
‘So, Thomas sold his fellow insurgents in exchange for a pardon,’ the Earl concluded. ‘And there was a happy conclusion to the affair – for everyone except you and the plotters.’
Chaloner regarded him uneasily. Secretly, he had been sympathetic to the rioters’ complaints. His own family had given every last penny to the Roundhead cause, and had been compensated with land when Cromwell had won the wars. But now the Royalists were back, those estates had been reclaimed – along with others legally purchased during the Commonwealth. He appreciated the fact that the original owners wanted what was theirs, but some farms had been bought for a fair price and worked for twelve years, and he felt ownership was not always a straightforward matter. However, he had never confided his opinions to anyone, so there was no way the Earl could know his real thoughts.
‘You played too small a role in crushing the revolt,’ elaborated the Earl, much to Chaloner’s relief. ‘Others – like May – claimed the glory, while you stayed in the shadows. Why?’
Chaloner felt he should not need to explain the obvious – and he had actually worked very hard in Ireland, successfully completing a number of tasks that the other intelligencers had deemed too dangerous or impossible. ‘If I had exposed my identity by clamouring for recognition, I would be no use to you, sir. Spying and fame are not good bedfellows.’
‘May does not seem affected by the attention,’ argued the Earl. ‘And neither does William Scot.’
Chaloner tried not to sound patronising. ‘Have you seen Scot, sir?’ The Earl thought for a moment, then shook his head. ‘That is because he left for Surinam as soon as the Castle Plot was unmasked, and although people know his name, no one knows what he looks like. He has maintained his cover.’
‘May has not.’
‘No,’ agreed Chaloner. ‘May has not. And every rebel in England knows him.’
The Earl dismissed his point by flapping his plump fingers. ‘His report said you were no help at all, and Williamson believes it – I heard the Spymaster say he expected no less from a former Parliamentarian. However, I am prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt, and that is what really matters. I know you, and you are not a fellow to shirk his duties.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Chaloner, wondering what he could do to make May stop his libellous campaign. Such documents had a habit of reappearing at awkward moments, and he did not want to be permanently tarnished by one man’s spiteful writings, especially given their inaccuracy.
Suddenly, the Earl tensed and seized his arm in a painful pinch, his attention fixed on the King’s table. ‘Bristol is dining with His Majesty. Look!’
Chaloner freed himself, wincing. ‘So he is.’
‘How dare he!’ raged Clarendon, working himself into a temper. ‘I am Lord Chancellor of England, and I was not invited to be there, so why should he be? It is insupportable! He is like a filthy bluebottle, always showing up in places where he is not wanted.’
Chaloner refrained from pointing out that Bristol looked anything but not wanted – the King was obviously enjoying his company, and even the Queen was smiling. As if he sensed their gaze upon him, Bristol glanced up at the gallery and his eyes lit on the outraged earl. With calculated insolence, he raised a lace-draped hand and waved. Clarendon gaped at him, then turned and shouldered his way outside. Immediately, Bristol threw back his head and laughed, making sure he did so loud enough for his enemy to hear.
‘Horrible man!’ snarled Clarendon, when he and his spy were alone again. ‘Did you see how he mocked me? How can His Majesty sit beside him and permit such low antics?’
‘He had no idea what Bristol was doing,’ said Chaloner soothingly. He had seen the puzzled look the King had shot in his companion’s direction at the sudden explosion of mirth.
Clarendon regained some of his composure. ‘No? Well, that is something at least. Did I ever tell you the origins of the quarrel that has turned Bristol so violently against me?’
‘Yes, sir,’ replied Chaloner, trying not to sound bored or insolent. As far as he could tell, the dispute was far from black and white: Bristol had done some very nasty things to Clarendon, but Clarendon had reciprocated in kind. ‘You debarred him from holding any official post because he is Catholic. I can understand why he finds that annoying.’