Part 11 (1/2)

Cromwell looked around him at the s.p.a.cious, panelled apartment in which he did most of his business. It was a pleasant room, with high windows and a floor tiled in black and white geometric shapes. There was a heavy old globe in the corner, surrounded by books, ledgers, and the ma.s.ses of papers with which the general had to deal on a daily basis.

Sighing, Cromwell wished that his son were not there to bother him, that he could have a moment of simple, unqualified peace. Normally, the room would be crowded with men. Advisers would be advising, soldiers would be scheming, and John Thurloe, his most trusted aide, would be doing his best to keep the general from drowning under a tide of bureaucratic waffle.

For once, though, the room was empty. Empty save for the thin boy who was proving, as he said, such a dissappointment to his father.

Cromwell sank back into his chair and cleared his throat, looking away evasively.

'It is not that, Son,' he said patiently. 'Only that I fear for your future. Look at these.' He rapped the papers strewn over his knee. 'Debts and debts on top of them! How I raised such a profligate spender is quite beyond me.'

He closed his eyes and scratched the bristles on his inexpertly shaved chin. 'What do you do all day, Richard?'

'Well ' the boy began.

Cromwell held up his hand. 'Nay, spare me. I do not wish to know the details of your shopping.'

He opened his blue eyes and glared at Richard. 'But do it less!' he thundered.

Richard dabbed his mouth with a lace handkerchief and nodded quickly, 'Yes, Father. May I '

'Yes' drawled Cromwell wearily. 'Please go.'

Richard bowed and shambled out of the room, his sword, which seemed to hang too low on his belt, sc.r.a.ping over the tiles.

Cromwell sighed and closed his eyes again. What had he done to deserve such a poltroon as an heir. Had his beloved Oliver not died...

But there was no sense in raking all that up again.

He sank back, grateful for the cus.h.i.+ons that nursed the painful boil on his b.u.t.tock.

For a long moment, he saw nothing but darkness beneath his closed eyelids but, gradually, faint images, like translucences in a church window, began to swim into his mind. He was a boy again. A boy, playing in the broad, flat fields of his father's estate in Cambridges.h.i.+re. The day was warm and fine, just as the summers of one's childhood always were. He saw again the heat haze sparkling over the crops, the old weather vane creaking, turning stiffly in the breeze. And the young lad with the huge spaniel eyes who had come to visit.

Cromwell had been too young to appreciate the importance of this particular visit and this particular, small, grave-looking boy. To him, he was just another playmate, an eight-year-old come to clash wooden swords with him, or play tag out among the swaying wheat.

There had been whispering in the house for weeks, he recalled, but not a word was spoken to him or his sisters. Not until the day of the visit, and then oh! a ceremony of such pomp, young Cromwell thought that Christmas had come early.

The two young boys had sat together by a pond, idly dropping stones into its depths and listening to the lovely, satisfying gloop they made as they entered the water.

Cromwell had smiled at the boy but the newcomer did not smile back. He seemed preoccupied and tense, almost old beyond his years. Trying again, Cromwell opened his coat and produced the puppy which had been a present from his dear mother only weeks before. Surely this would cheer the boy up?

But the boy turned his sad eyes away from Cromwell and looked back towards the large, grey rectangle of the house. He seemed to perk up as a young woman approached, her long, full skirts brus.h.i.+ng over the dusty ground.

She scooped the boy up into her arms and he smiled delightedly. 'There now, my boy,' she said. 'It is time for your bed. Say goodbye to Master Oliver.'

The boy frowned and shook his head.

The woman wagged her finger at him. 'Say goodbye, now, Charles.'

He buried his head in her breast and, m.u.f.fled by her ap.r.o.n, he stammered, 'G-goodbye.'

The nurse smiled, shook her head and gave Cromwell a little wave and turned back towards the house.

Cromwell remembered thinking the boy was very rude indeed. He had no thought then how could he? that one day he would be putting that boy, that prince, on trial for his life.

Opening his eyes, Cromwell found John Thurloe standing before him.

'Yes, John?'

Thurloe, a middle-sized, extremely neat man with a horsy face and spa.r.s.e beard, gave a little bow. 'They have arrived, General.'

'Who?' frowned Cromwell.

Tliurloe coughed into his gloved hand. 'The prisoners.

The... er, seer and his doctor.'

Cromwell's face lit up. He felt immensely cheered already.

'Oh! Yes. Yes, bring them in.'

He rubbed his hands together. For a rational, G.o.d-fearing man Cromwell was inordinately fond of the mystical. He had recently taken much notice of a wise woman from Cornwall who had predicted that the whole of London would be destroyed by a plague of angry cats within the century. She had been very convincing.

Cromwell adopted his most sagacious-looking pose on the chair and let his chin rest on his hand. No, no, no, too contrived, he thought.

He sat back and opened his legs, resting his hands on the heavily carved arms of the chair. Too regal.

He heard Thurloe returning and made a snap decision to stand by the globe. He set it spinning and then leaned over it, his lower lip jutting out thoughtfully, his hands behind his back.

Thurloe swept in moments later with a young man and a funny-looking fellow with untidy black hair. Both wore long black cloaks and had a somewhat sheepish air about them.

Cromwell looked up and tapped his finger against his chin.

'Well now,' he mused. 'What do we have here?'

The fire was burning a little low in the kitchen grate when Frances Kemp entered the room. She made straight for the range, ignoring the hunched figure of her father, who was staring broodingly into the flames. There was a large tray of ale and cheese on the table before him, covered by a fresh cloth.

Frances set to work at once to revive the fire, twisting to avoid the spits on which four suckling pigs were skewered.

Kemp turned his head and scowled at her. 'Do you not have a word for your father, girl?'

Frances reflected wryly that she had several words for him, but none that he would like. 'Good afternoon,' she said at last.

Kemp grunted. 'A good afternoon is it that sees a king to be put on trial for his life?'

'I meant-'

'I know what you meant,' growled Kemp, hawking up a ball of phlegm and spitting into the fire.

Frances tugged nervously at her knuckles. 'The King is to stand trial, then?'