brutally cold, and I am chilled to the bone. Do not keep me talking out here any longer – my feet are in desperate need of thawing.’
Chaloner took his leave, but the encounter had left him distinctly uneasy, so he lurked near the Rolls Chapel opposite, until a coach rattled out of Lincoln’s Inn. He was not surprised to glimpse Thurloe inside it. The fact that the ex-Spymaster had not spent long defrosting his toes indicated he had not been as cold as he had claimed, and it had been a ploy to escape his friend’s company.
Chaloner rubbed his chin unhappily. Should he try harder to prevent Thurloe from falling face-first into disaster? But Thurloe was a man of principle, and would do what he thought was right, regardless of the risk to himself. He would not be easy to dissuade. With a heavy heart, and the sense that something was about to go very badly wrong, Chaloner set off towards the Bridge.
The streets were busy that afternoon, and it took him some time to reach his destination. When he arrived, the Bridge was teeming with carts, pedestrians and a veritable Noah’s ark of animals – cows, geese, sheep, horses, pigs and mules. He paused at the open area called the Square, and glanced over the parapet to the river below. The tide was in full spate, roaring through the arches in frothy brown jets. Spray rose in a misty pall, carrying with it the dank aroma of dirty water.
Chaloner was still gazing at the spectacle when he became aware of a commotion up ahead. It was centred around the scaffolding-swathed Chapel House, which Blue Dick had visited before he had been stabbed. A carriage had parked outside it, bringing north-bound traffic to a standstill. Furious drivers were yelling at the coachman to move, and the coachman was bawling pithily worded refusals. Chaloner was surprised no one had hauled him from his seat and shifted the offending vehicle themselves, but soon saw why: he was being protected by two men with guns. He recognised them immediately: they were the Frenchmen, Doucett and Martin – the pair who had almost caught him spying in Somerset House the previous night.
Curious to know what was going on, Chaloner slipped into the haberdashery shop opposite, and settled down to watch, anonymous among several other customers. He did not have to feign an interest in buttons for long, because there was soon some action.
Seeing the carriage was not going to be moved by threats or force, one of the carters had gone to fetch someone in authority. He returned with two men the Earl had pointed out in St James’s Park that morning. The diminutive Junior Warden Scarlet was white-faced and red-eyed, and took no part in the ensuing discussion; Chaloner wondered whether he was ill. And Senior Warden Hussey was accompanied by four of the fattest children Chaloner had ever seen. They could barely walk, and when they stood in a row side by side, they represented a formidable obstruction all on their own.
‘What is going on?’ Hussey demanded of the offending coach. ‘You know the rules: traffic keeps moving on the Bridge, and deliveries can only be made at night.’
‘The Dowager is visiting Chapel House,’ replied the Frenchman who Chaloner thought was called Doucett. His English was thickly accented. ‘And she stops where she pleases.’
‘Oh,’ said Hussey, the wind taken out of his sails at the mention of such an august personage. ‘I see. Well, in her case, we must make an exception, but—’
Fortunately for Hussey – those trapped in the traffic did not see why the King’s mother should be treated differently to anyone else – the Dowager chose that particular moment to conclude her sightseeing. She strode out of Chapel House and stepped into her carriage without so much as a glance towards the simmering crowd. Clearly, there was to be no apology for the inconvenience she had caused.
Three of her cronies followed. The moustachioed Winter was deep in discussion with the purple-nosed vicar of
Chaloner took his leave, but the encounter had left him distinctly uneasy, so he lurked near the Rolls Chapel opposite, until a coach rattled out of Lincoln’s Inn. He was not surprised to glimpse Thurloe inside it. The fact that the ex-Spymaster had not spent long defrosting his toes indicated he had not been as cold as he had claimed, and it had been a ploy to escape his friend’s company.
Chaloner rubbed his chin unhappily. Should he try harder to prevent Thurloe from falling face-first into disaster? But Thurloe was a man of principle, and would do what he thought was right, regardless of the risk to himself. He would not be easy to dissuade. With a heavy heart, and the sense that something was about to go very badly wrong, Chaloner set off towards the Bridge.
The streets were busy that afternoon, and it took him some time to reach his destination. When he arrived, the Bridge was teeming with carts, pedestrians and a veritable Noah’s ark of animals – cows, geese, sheep, horses, pigs and mules. He paused at the open area called the Square, and glanced over the parapet to the river below. The tide was in full spate, roaring through the arches in frothy brown jets. Spray rose in a misty pall, carrying with it the dank aroma of dirty water.
Chaloner was still gazing at the spectacle when he became aware of a commotion up ahead. It was centred around the scaffolding-swathed Chapel House, which Blue Dick had visited before he had been stabbed. A carriage had parked outside it, bringing north-bound traffic to a standstill. Furious drivers were yelling at the coachman to move, and the coachman was bawling pithily worded refusals. Chaloner was surprised no one had hauled him from his seat and shifted the offending vehicle themselves, but soon saw why: he was being protected by two men with guns. He recognised them immediately: they were the Frenchmen, Doucett and Martin – the pair who had almost caught him spying in Somerset House the previous night.
Curious to know what was going on, Chaloner slipped into the haberdashery shop opposite, and settled down to watch, anonymous among several other customers. He did not have to feign an interest in buttons for long, because there was soon some action.
Seeing the carriage was not going to be moved by threats or force, one of the carters had gone to fetch someone in authority. He returned with two men the Earl had pointed out in St James’s Park that morning. The diminutive Junior Warden Scarlet was white-faced and red-eyed, and took no part in the ensuing discussion; Chaloner wondered whether he was ill. And Senior Warden Hussey was accompanied by four of the fattest children Chaloner had ever seen. They could barely walk, and when they stood in a row side by side, they represented a formidable obstruction all on their own.
‘What is going on?’ Hussey demanded of the offending coach. ‘You know the rules: traffic keeps moving on the Bridge, and deliveries can only be made at night.’
‘The Dowager is visiting Chapel House,’ replied the Frenchman who Chaloner thought was called Doucett. His English was thickly accented. ‘And she stops where she pleases.’
‘Oh,’ said Hussey, the wind taken out of his sails at the mention of such an august personage. ‘I see. Well, in her case, we must make an exception, but—’
Fortunately for Hussey – those trapped in the traffic did not see why the King’s mother should be treated differently to anyone else – the Dowager chose that particular moment to conclude her sightseeing. She strode out of Chapel House and stepped into her carriage without so much as a glance towards the simmering crowd. Clearly, there was to be no apology for the inconvenience she had caused.
Three of her cronies followed. The moustachioed Winter was deep in discussion with the purple-nosed vicar of
Similar Books
