Part 3 (1/2)

'Many in?'

Kemp swigged some water from a pewter cup and scowled. 'That girl not back yet?' he said gruffly, ignoring his wife's question.

Sarah brushed the hair from her eyes and began kneading a lump of dough which sat on a marble slab before her. 'No. Not yet.'

'Can't see what could keep her,' growled Kemp. 'An errand's an errand. She should be making better time now she's grown, not worse.'

Sarah Kemp bit her lip. She knew that the truth was bound to come out sooner or later. But, oh Lord, let it be later. She couldn't bear to see her little Frances upset. And with William in this kind of mood, anything might happen. Of course, he was perpetually in this mood, nowadays, since... since...

She moved quickly as hot tears sprang into her eyes.

Kemp did not notice. 'I ask you,' he said, holding his big hands palms upward, 'how long can it take to bring back a sack of flour?'

Sarah sank her hands into the dough and worked on.

'Expect she got to talking with someone. You know what girls are like.'

'Aye,' said Kemp. 'I do. When there's work to be done and not time to waste in idle gossip '

He broke off as the door opened and Frances came inside.

She looked first at her mother and smiled broadly, then, as she noticed her father, her expression changed. She took off her cloak and laid it over a chair by the fire, where it began to steam in the heat.

She smoothed back the hair from her delicate, rather otherworldly face and sat down opposite her father. He banged his fist on the table, setting the cheese rocking on its plate.

'Where's the flour?' asked Kemp, his sour expression unchanging.

'In the outhouse, of course.' said Frances quietly. 'And where, might I ask, have you been all this time?'

Sarah Kemp looked across the table and caught Frances's eye. She shook her head imperceptibly and Frances nodded her understanding.

'All this time?' she said with feigned indifference. 'Why, I've not been more than half an hour, Father. And I needs must be careful in this weather. I'm sure you wouldn't want your flour spilled all over the highway.'

She flashed him her sweetest smile and Kemp grunted. He swigged more water and stuffed the remainder of the bread into his coat pocket, then got up, the chair legs sc.r.a.ping on the floor.

'I've got word that we're to expect guests, Sarah,' he said, looking his wife directly in the eyes.

'Guests?'

'Aye. So you'll see the upstairs is made up good and proper, won't you?' He crossed the kitchen and, without looking back, threw open the inner door and went into the tavern.

Sarah and Frances exchanged glances.

'Guests?' said Frances at last. 'What kind of guests?'

In the queasy yellow light of a lamp, the man cut a n.o.ble figure. His face was long and intelligent, his complexion, like his hair and beard, so dark as to have once earned him the nickname Black Tom. But the raven hair was streaked with grey now and, though he gave the outward appearance of a man very much at peace with himself, Sir Thomas Fairfax, Commander-in-Chief of Parliament's New Model Army, was nothing of the kind.

He was pacing up and down a modestly sized apartment, its small, mullioned windows letting in scant amounts of the feeble light of that freezing morning.

He had ordered his secretary, a young man of only twenty years, to light the lamp in order to lift some of the gloom Fairfax was feeling. But, if anything, the tallowy illumination only depressed his spirits further, throwing dense shadows over the furniture and the heavy, panelled walls.

The secretary scribbled away furiously on a large sheet of parchment, the nib of his quill scratching and squeaking over the smooth surface.

'It is an outrage,' dictated Fairfax, his coal-black eyes blazing. 'No, an illegal outrage. And I strongly urge that General Cromwell be remonstrated with for sanctioning this action against the lawfully elected Parliament of this nation.

Signed, Fairfax, Commander-in-Chief.'

He paused, his head sinking on to his breast, and then waved a hand to dismiss the secretary.

The young man got up, clasping the still-wet parchment to his chest. 'I will have this delivered with all due dispatch, My Lord.'

Fairfax nodded, his attention already drifting elsewhere.

There was still so much to be done. The Army had not been properly paid for months. The King was imprisoned, awaiting trial. But what kind of trial could it be if the legally elected Parliament had not voted it through? If Cromwell had to get his way only by this outrageous purge of all those who did not see eye to eye with him?

After a while, Fairfax realised that the secretary was still there, hovering in the doorway.

'What is it?' asked Fairfax, frowning.

The secretary cleared his throat, fiddled with the border of his wide collar, and looked down at the faded embroidery of the carpet.

'I was just wondering, My Lord...'

'Well?'

The secretary cleared his throat. 'I was wondering... what kind of a remonstrance Parliament might be expected to pa.s.s when two-thirds of its members are being thrown out of office.'

For a moment, the secretary thought the n.o.ble Lord might explode with fury, but, gradually, the fiery light in his eyes faded and he gave a harsh laugh. 'Aye, fair point, lad. I know what General Cromwell will say.'

'My Lord?'

'He is still in the North, you know. But he won't object to what has been done. It leaves the way clear for his followers to vote through the King's trial.'

The secretary inclined his head to one side. 'Then this letter...?'

'Is useless. I know,' concluded Fairfax mournfully. 'But I will have it known that I object most strongly to this course of action. History will not say that Thomas Fairfax conspired to murder his King.'

The secretary gave a neat bow and exited.

Fairfax slumped down on to a cus.h.i.+oned chair and stared at the flickering flame of the lamp. 'Where are you, Oliver?'

he whispered to himself. 'Where are you?