‘What was Arlington doing with this?’ I wondered.
Dowling huddled up too close. ‘Arlington has long been suspected to be a reluctant Protestant, the King besides.’
‘It’s a draft,’ I realised. ‘He gave it to Arlington so that Arlington might advise him on how best to proceed. They conspired.’
‘And Arlington gave it to Josselin by mistake,’ said Dowling wide-eyed. ‘The King will execute Arlington on the spot if he discovers his carelessness.’
I sat motionless, staring into the distance. This might be the King’s
death warrant in my hands. What must Josselin have thought when he read this letter?
‘Now I understand,’ I whispered. ‘Arlington accused Josselin of sabotaging peace. In truth Josselin saw the only possibility for peace was to force Arlington’s treachery out into the open.’
‘What do you mean?’ Dowling growled.
‘Josselin was staunch Protestant,’ I replied, ‘but also a loyal subject. If he revealed the contents of the third letter, he knew he condemned the King to imprisonment. If he did not, then he condemned the Dutch to English and French betrayal. Holland could not survive the combined might of England and France. No wonder he fled to Shyam.’
Dowling clasped his hands together, his Scotch accent unusually thick. I had never seen him so panicked. ‘And what of us? Where shall we flee to?’
‘Think,’ I replied. ‘What did Josselin plan to do?’
‘He ran away to Shyam,’ said Dowling.
I tapped my finger upon my thigh. ‘So he did,’ I said. ‘But then he sought to meet with Arlington, and spoke also of talking to Clarendon. He wouldn’t meet Arlington without knowing the letter was safe. So he sought safety for himself on the basis of owning the letter.’
‘Which didn’t work,’ Dowling pointed out. ‘For Arlington was determined to kill him.’
‘Arlington must have been sure Josselin would not have shared the letter with anyone else,’ I concluded. ‘Why, though, did Josselin want to see Clarendon?’
‘Clarendon is not a reluctant Protestant,’ said Dowling with approving tone.
‘No,’ I agreed. ‘But he is loyal to the King, and is the greatest advocate for peace with the Dutch.’
I let the idea settle upon my weary brain.
‘We take the letter to Clarendon,’ said Dowling. ‘Clarendon is horrified and at first refuses to believe it can be true.’
‘But then he looks at the seal and the signature,’ I continued. ‘Reminds himself what a vile creature Arlington is, and realises the King has been plotting behind his back.’
‘So he shouts and screams, and throws things about Clarendon House,’ said Dowling, ‘and realises he must do something.’
‘Clarendon would never countenance a union with a Catholic state,’ I guessed. ‘He would hot-foot it to the palace and remonstrate in private with the King, persuading him the idea is wicked folly.’ I raised a brow. ‘Whereupon the King would be forced to agree, since he could not risk allowing anyone outside his immediate counsel to even suspect him of entertaining the thought.’
‘And what of us?’
What of us indeed? ‘We would be utterly dependent on Clarendon’s whim. If the King were to demand we be put to death, what motive would Clarendon have to argue?’ I pondered. ‘His own safety, perhaps? They say Charles cannot abide Clarendon, that he preys upon the royal nerves. Were Clarendon to tell him that two of his own men knew the secret and possessed the letter, then the King could not touch him.’
‘Which supposes Arlington did not tell the King about us afore he died,’ Dowling said.
‘If he has told the King, we have no defence at all,’ I pointed out. ‘Once he discovers Arlington is dead, he will send out his whole army to find us. But I doubt he told the King anything, for to do so he
would have to confess to the King what he did with the letter.’
‘We should seek Clarendon’s help,’ Dowling concluded. ‘Either way, it is our only chance.’
‘And quickly,’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘Afore we are arrested.’
The roads about Fleet Street and Shoe Lane teemed thick, crowds hurrying somewhere or another with great intent. Soldiers pressed the fit and healthy into passing buckets from Fleet Ditch, forming a chain all the way to Ludgate. At the end of the chain an optimistic fellow threw the contents of every pail in the direction of the roaring fire, without discernible effect.
Some slipped surreptitiously between the shadows, preparing to flee, seeking wagons and horses to carry their possessions away, for fear the fire would escape the City walls. Those already dispossessed got in everyone else’s way, wandering aimlessly, silent and confused, else loudly bewailing their plight to all and sundry.
We hurried along The Strand towards Haymarket. By Charing Cross the crowds dissipated and I noticed we were not the only ones walking fast. Three men, wearing brown leather jerkins over their shirts, hurried behind.
‘Stop!’ one shouted. ‘Where are you going?’
We obliged, for they were too close to escape, and all were armed.
‘To St Giles’ Fields,’ I called. ‘I would know if my cousin is safe.’
‘You take a long route to St Giles’ Fields,’ one of them panted, pulling up alongside. ‘A shorter road to Clarendon House.’
‘What do you mean?’ I demanded. ‘Do I look like the Earl of Clarendon?’
‘No,’ he smiled. ‘You do not. You look like the two fellows Lord Arlington wishes to talk to.’
‘Arlington?’ I felt my mouth go dry. ‘Lord Arlington is dead.’
The three men regarded each other with knowing expressions.
‘Not dead, friend,’ the leader replied. ‘Pan-fried and crispy, perhaps, but not dead.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
Tell us, Oh stranger, what Nation of Europe, or almost of the World, shall be in a peaceable condition within three years?
A boat and three more soldiers waited for us at the river. A crowd of angry citizens shouted and threw stones, desperate to cross to the south bank, for now the bridge was inaccessible.
The soldiers bundled us through the crowd, clearing a path without decorum, shoving and waving their swords. A tall man with wild eyes and red cheeks thrust his face towards us, and the soldier stabbed him just beneath the ribs. He stumbled forwards, grasping for my arm, just as I fell into the bottom of the skiff.
I lay there prone while the boat lurched out to the middle of the river. When I looked up, heavy-headed, I saw the whole terrible glory of it all. The entire City blazed, from west wall almost to the Tower, flames pushed left by the swirling gale. Plumes of poisonous smoke blanketed the sky, high as a man could see. Boats covered the
water, small and large, many sinking dangerously deep into the river, overburdened with the possessions of those that fled.
I sat frozen, entranced by the sight of it, bewildered by the notion that Arlington could possibly still be alive. How else could he have escaped other than down Ludgate Hill? Yet flames engulfed the hill just minutes after we ran through the gate.
‘Have you seen Arlington yourself?’ I asked one of the soldiers.
He threw back his head and brayed like a donkey. ‘Aye, I saw him. Stood there smoking, shirt and his breeches still smouldering. An angrier man I have not seen in my life.’ He laughed again. ‘Angry with you, I’ll be bound.’
‘Are you sure it was him?’
‘You will see him yourself, soon enough,’ the man replied, smile fading as we neared the Tower.
We rode the current fast through the starlings, past the bridge and out onto stiller waters the other side, before the boat lurched left for the Tower. More soldiers waited at Tower Wharf. As we neared the quay I thought of the Spanish donkey. Today would be the day I rode her, I wagered, unless God affected some unlikely intervention. I pictured Arlington piling up the weights in anticipation of our arrival. My bowels loosened, and I sought Dowling’s attention. He frowned so hard I could barely see his eyes.