the
Cressy
¸ delivered an adequate and thankfully brief eulogy, and led us briskly through the funeral service: the bitter cold of a Swedish winter night was repelled not a jot by the walls of the German church, broad but relatively low by English standards, nor by the blazing torches within, so many of those within the congregation, myself included, were visibly shivering. I could see my breath rise in little clouds before my eyes. My teeth chattered. My hands were gloved, but I seemed to have precious little feeling in them. And yet I kept my eyes upon the coffin – the very large coffin – upon its bier before the altar, mourning the man who lay within.
‘Now is Christ risen from the dead,’ Eade proclaimed, reciting thewords in his flat Westmorland tones, ‘and become the first fruits of them that slept. For since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead…’
As Eade droned on, I reflected that my old friend and comrade- in-arms Francis Gale would have made a rather better fist of the interment. Indeed, I had not realised until that moment how much I missed Francis’s counsel and steadying presence at my side. Certain it was that he had a God-given duty to tend to his flock in my home parish; his last letter had spoken of the ever-increasing insolencies of the dissenters in our part of Bedfordshire, among whom a certain Bunyan held a particular sway. Even more certain was the unbridled wrath that could be expected from my mother if Francis forsook that duty once again to serve at sea alongside me. But I knew I could handle my mother, and vowed there and then that I would take Francis to sea once more in my next command.
Thus lost in my thoughts, I was briefly unaware of a sudden commotion at the back of the church, by the west door. North, sitting to my right, had already turned to face it, and I, too, inclined my head in that direction.
‘By Heaven, the presumption!’ hissed North. ‘The killer comes to mock his victim!’
Within the west door stood John, Lord Bale, surrounded by a dozen or so supporters who were clearly heavily armed.
There was confusion in the church. All heads were turning westward. There was much angry murmuring, especially from the Cressys. Phineas Musk, in a pew across the nave, had his hand inside his jerkin, and I knew for certain it would be resting upon the hilt of a knife. The prospect of a pitched battle upon holy ground seemed imminent indeed, and my honour would not permit such a desecration. Which meant but one thing, if we were to avert bloodshed –
‘North,’ I said sharply, ‘with me. Now.’
I stood, and with Lydford North at my side, I strode up the nave toward the west door, my hand outstretched to command all Cressys toremain where they were. Bale looked upon my approach curiously, but stood his ground. The men of his little army tensed, their hands going to concealed weapons.
I halted before the regicide. ‘In the name of God,’ I said, ‘what is it that you do here? Why do you show such disrespect to the dead, and dare show your face among those who mourn?’
Lord Bale did not answer immediately. Instead, he looked me up and down appraisingly before greeting me with perfect courtesy. ‘Sir Matthew .’ His attention turned to Lydford North, who seemed barely able to contain his rage. ‘And you will be Arlington’s creature. I am surprised the noble lord sends one so very young to kill me.’
This took me aback, but it clearly had no such effect upon Lydford North. There was no denial: rather, there was a grim half-smile of acknowledgement. ‘You killed My Lord Conisbrough,’ said North, ‘as you killed the king. I shall merely be the instrument of God’s righteous judgment upon you.’
‘The killing of Charles Stuart I have no choice but to acknowledge,’ said Bale casually, the murder of a monarch reduced to a mere matter of fact. ‘But I did not kill Conisbrough. You can believe that or not, but having murdered a
Cressy
¸ delivered an adequate and thankfully brief eulogy, and led us briskly through the funeral service: the bitter cold of a Swedish winter night was repelled not a jot by the walls of the German church, broad but relatively low by English standards, nor by the blazing torches within, so many of those within the congregation, myself included, were visibly shivering. I could see my breath rise in little clouds before my eyes. My teeth chattered. My hands were gloved, but I seemed to have precious little feeling in them. And yet I kept my eyes upon the coffin – the very large coffin – upon its bier before the altar, mourning the man who lay within.
‘Now is Christ risen from the dead,’ Eade proclaimed, reciting thewords in his flat Westmorland tones, ‘and become the first fruits of them that slept. For since by man came death, by man came also the resurrection of the dead…’
As Eade droned on, I reflected that my old friend and comrade- in-arms Francis Gale would have made a rather better fist of the interment. Indeed, I had not realised until that moment how much I missed Francis’s counsel and steadying presence at my side. Certain it was that he had a God-given duty to tend to his flock in my home parish; his last letter had spoken of the ever-increasing insolencies of the dissenters in our part of Bedfordshire, among whom a certain Bunyan held a particular sway. Even more certain was the unbridled wrath that could be expected from my mother if Francis forsook that duty once again to serve at sea alongside me. But I knew I could handle my mother, and vowed there and then that I would take Francis to sea once more in my next command.
Thus lost in my thoughts, I was briefly unaware of a sudden commotion at the back of the church, by the west door. North, sitting to my right, had already turned to face it, and I, too, inclined my head in that direction.
‘By Heaven, the presumption!’ hissed North. ‘The killer comes to mock his victim!’
Within the west door stood John, Lord Bale, surrounded by a dozen or so supporters who were clearly heavily armed.
There was confusion in the church. All heads were turning westward. There was much angry murmuring, especially from the Cressys. Phineas Musk, in a pew across the nave, had his hand inside his jerkin, and I knew for certain it would be resting upon the hilt of a knife. The prospect of a pitched battle upon holy ground seemed imminent indeed, and my honour would not permit such a desecration. Which meant but one thing, if we were to avert bloodshed –
‘North,’ I said sharply, ‘with me. Now.’
I stood, and with Lydford North at my side, I strode up the nave toward the west door, my hand outstretched to command all Cressys toremain where they were. Bale looked upon my approach curiously, but stood his ground. The men of his little army tensed, their hands going to concealed weapons.
I halted before the regicide. ‘In the name of God,’ I said, ‘what is it that you do here? Why do you show such disrespect to the dead, and dare show your face among those who mourn?’
Lord Bale did not answer immediately. Instead, he looked me up and down appraisingly before greeting me with perfect courtesy. ‘Sir Matthew .’ His attention turned to Lydford North, who seemed barely able to contain his rage. ‘And you will be Arlington’s creature. I am surprised the noble lord sends one so very young to kill me.’
This took me aback, but it clearly had no such effect upon Lydford North. There was no denial: rather, there was a grim half-smile of acknowledgement. ‘You killed My Lord Conisbrough,’ said North, ‘as you killed the king. I shall merely be the instrument of God’s righteous judgment upon you.’
‘The killing of Charles Stuart I have no choice but to acknowledge,’ said Bale casually, the murder of a monarch reduced to a mere matter of fact. ‘But I did not kill Conisbrough. You can believe that or not, but having murdered a
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