1634: The Baltic War (20 page)

"He was a rebel and a regicide," Laud said stiffly. "Graciously, I will leave aside that he had the two of us executed, as well."

"Yes, he did, and so he was. But much more to the point, William, he was a rebel who never found the path to legitimacy. That's what did him in, in the end. His regime, rather, since"—Wentworth barked a harsh laugh—"no one tried to beard the lion while he was still alive. But after he died, it all fell apart. And there's really the lesson, I think. If a supremely capable and successful rebel can have his regime undone by a lack of legitimacy, what chance does a legitimate monarch who is not capable and successful at anything beyond petulance and caprice have of not squandering it away?"

He turned from the window to face the archbishop squarely. "That was not a rhetorical question, William. I need an answer to it. Quite desperately."

It was Laud's turn to look away. He glanced at the various portraits on the wall—men and women once famous, now half-forgotten—before spending a minute or so staring at a vase. A very attractive vase, and a very fragile one.

"No chance at all," he said finally, the words almost sighing from his mouth. "No more chance than I have, in the end, in what I had hoped to do. Damned Scotsmen."

Wentworth laughed again, rather gaily this time. "Oh, please, William! It was hardly just the Scotsmen!"

"They started it," Laud growled. "But . . . no, it wasn't just them."

He looked up at Wentworth, the expression on his face a half-pleading one. "I've been pondering the matter a great deal myself. Always managing to evade the collision, until . . ."

"Until Tom Simpson and Lady Mailey asked you to appoint a bishop for Grantville."

There'd been a time when William Laud would have objected to the term "Lady," applied to a commoner like Melissa Mailey. But, like many things, that time had passed. Seemed very ancient, in fact.

"Yes. A simple and straightforward request, on the face of it. Underneath, something vastly different. If I refuse, I undermine the true church of which I am the primate. But if I accept, I must limit that same church. I must agree—acquiesce, at least—to limits I have never heretofore accepted."

"And?"

"And . . . I don't know yet, not for sure. But I think I will finally agree. Because, in the end, I don't believe I really have any choice. Whether I like it or not."

Wentworth nodded. "No, I don't believe you do. Any more than I do."

Silence, again, for another minute. Then Laud asked: "What do you propose to do, then?"

"I have no idea, at the moment. My thoughts have gone everywhere for the past weeks—and come back as if they'd never gone. I even contemplated for a time releasing Oliver from the Tower and helping
him overthrow the dynasty."

Laud's eyes were practically protruding. "You
must
be joking."

"Oh, no. I gave it quite serious thought. But what would be the point? He failed once; why would he succeed now? The goal was unobtainable in the first place, insofar as he ever had a clear goal in mind."

For a moment, his gaze grew unfocused. "It would be quite fascinating, you know, to be able to speak to that man. Not the man in his early thirties named Oliver Cromwell who sits this moment in a dungeon, but the man he became in that other universe, a quarter of a century from now. The lord protector of England, in his late fifties. What had he learned? What did he regret? What would he do otherwise, could it do it over again?"

The gaze came back into focus; a very keen one, in fact. "A fancy, you'll say. But is it? Are we not—you and I—in a position every bit as fanciful? Two
dead men—
my head rolling off a block on Tower Hill on May the twelfth of 1641, and yours in the same place on the tenth of January, not four years later—who are even this moment speaking to each other nonetheless. As if two severed heads on a mantelpiece were to be having a conversation."

"Oh, that's . . ."

"Yes, I know. Fanciful."

"I was going to say, 'silly.' "

"That, too, I suppose. But the substance remains. We are not in much different a position than two men who have a chance to relive their lives. What we chose once, we do not need to choose again."

"Yes, true enough—but it doesn't make our current choices any easier or less uncertain. And, for me at least, what shakes my resolve is not my knowledge of errors made in another universe, or a life that might have been. What shakes my resolve—all my certainties, except that I believe in Him—is what God did in
this
world."

Laud rose from his chair. Almost sprang from it. "It's none of that, Thomas! It's the Ring of Fire itself that my brain cannot wrap itself around. Let the papists prattle about 'God's hidden purpose' all they want. Let the Calvinists do the same. The
fact
remains. For the first time since the Resurrection, the Lord moved His hand so powerfully and so visibly that any man can
see
it. The first undoubted miracle in sixteen hundred years.
Why?
"

"I don't know."

"Of course you don't. None of us do. But He
did.
That, whatever else, can neither be questioned nor denied."

He fell back into the chair, collapsing as quickly as he came out it. "We ignore the deed at our great peril. I am uncertain of most things, now. But of that, I am not uncertain at all."

Again, silence.

"So. What will you do?" the archbishop asked the minister.

"I don't know. I simply know that it cannot go on like this."

Wentworth glanced at the window, and saw that the sun had set. He hadn't noticed earlier, because of the grayness of the day outside and the light cast by the lamps in Laud's chamber.

"I must be off. The captain I entrusted with the task is a capable one, but I'd best make sure there any no unforeseen problems."

Laud nodded heavily, but said nothing.

When he reached the door, a thought came to Wentworth. Half-smiling, he turned back. "You, on the other hand, should have—just now—answered your own question."

The archbishop looked up. "Eh?"

"The question of the bishop. As you said yourself, God moved His hand. That being so, how can you refuse to send a bishop to that very place He did the deed, when his presence is requested from there?"

For a moment, Laud looked alarmed. Then, smiled—and quite cheerfully. "Why, yes. That's very nicely put, Thomas. My thanks, indeed. It
would
seem to border on apostasy, wouldn't it? Can't have that."

Between the nature of his assignment and the day's weather, Captain Anthony Leebrick was in a foul mood. With his usual imperturbability, he hadn't let any of it show; certainly not to his own soldiers and not even to any of the royal party, not even the coachmen. But when he saw the first elements of a Trained Band moving out of a side street to block Tyburn Hill Road, he finally lost his temper.

"Oh, God's blood!" he snarled. "Not
today,
lads. I'm in no mood for it!"

He wouldn't have been, even if the sun was shining. Under these conditions, with a sleet coming on top of the past few days' thaw turning every road in the city into a mess of half-frozen mud, he had more than enough to worry about.

The horses were skittish already, as large animals always are when the footing is treacherous. That was even true—especially true, perhaps—of the horses hauling the royal carriages. Where a sensible and level-headed farmer or tradesman who needed to haul a heavy wagon would have selected horses for the purpose who were sturdy and placid beasts, kings and queens and high noblemen were far more likely to select them for their appearance. And, indeed, the eight steeds pulling the king and queen's conveyance were a fine-looking group, and even matched for color. So were the ones pulling the carriage behind it, which held the royal children and their nursemaids and nannies. But they were very far from the sort of animals Leebrick wanted to rely on to carry the royal party to Oxford under bad weather conditions in the middle of winter.

He'd made an attempt this morning to persuade King Charles to postpone the journey until the weather cleared. But the king had been adamant, and the queen even more so. They were convinced that London was so infested with disease that the risk of remaining for another day or two was unacceptable. Henrietta Maria had even started shrieking at Leebrick.

Fine for her, of course, to ride through sleet in a sheltered carriage. Fine, at least, in terms of her immediate comfort. Leebrick was quite certain it had never once occurred to Her Majesty that the driver and coachmen—and the horses—were going to be miserable and doing their jobs under terrible conditions. More to the point, that their ability to do their jobs in the first place might very well affect her own well-being.

So be it. The queen of England was well known for many things. Good sense had never been one of them.

About the only consolation the weather was giving him was that the sleet wasn't so heavy that everyone on the road couldn't look over and see the gallows alongside Tyburn Hill. Great heavy things, too, they were—a three-beam affair on three legs, for when they had a batch to hang at once. Leebrick glared at the Trained Band taking up positions across the road ahead of him, imagining several of their commanders swinging from the scaffold.

His anger was due to the moment, not the general situation. Ever since the earl of Strafford had brought a large number of mercenary companies from the continent to impose iron royal rule over England, there had been frequent clashes between the mercenary companies and London's long-established militia. For the most part, however, aside from the initial period, it had been a reasonably good-natured business. The earl had been careful to give the assignment of controlling London to companies like Leebrick's own, whose soldiers were almost all Englishmen—many of them from the same plebeian neighborhoods in London that were the stronghold of the Trained Bands. A fair number of Leebrick's men, in fact, had once belonged to one of the Trained Bands themselves.

As long as no one got too rambunctious, the confrontations and scuffles these days were more in the way of a very rough sport than anything a hardened soldier like Leebrick would call "combat." A lot of bruises, the occasional broken bone or gash from a pike, but almost no fatalities and not even many serious wounds. Mostly, once they accepted the verdict of the first few weeks of serious clashes, the Trained Bands were simply determined to demonstrate their stout London spirit and their unwillingness to capitulate to royal tyranny like so many curs.

"Not
today,
lads," Leebrick repeated, now growling softly instead of snarling.

His two lieutenants, Richard Towson and Patrick Welch, had drawn their horses alongside his. "How do you want to handle it, Captain?" asked Towson.

Before Leebrick could respond, Welch added: "There's another group coming down the side road we just passed. Not as big, but enough to require more than a handful of men."

Leebrick frowned. The Trained Bands didn't normally do anything as complex as a flanking maneuver. For the first time, he wondered if this encounter was more than the simple bad coincidence he'd assumed it was. Could the Bands have gotten word that the king was leaving the city? They'd have had precious little notice, even if they did, since the royal decision to go to Oxford had been made impulsively. The servants had had to scramble madly to get everything ready by the morning.

It wasn't impossible, by any means. Servants talk, after all. The reason Leebrick still thought it unlikely that this was a planned encounter was that the Trained Bands were a militia, mostly made up of the city's artisans and their apprentices. He'd had a hard enough time himself, getting his own company of professional soldiers ready on such short notice. What was the likelihood that the Trained Bands could so as well?

Not very. But whether planned or not, he still had a bad situation on his hands. The problem wasn't the Trained Bands, in themselves. He and his men could handle those perfectly easily, even if it came to a real fracas. The real problem—

A piercing female shriek from behind let him know that "the real problem" had just surfaced. Apparently, the queen had spotted the Trained Band advancing toward them down that side road. Glancing back, he could see that the royal carriage had come to a stop right at the intersection of that road and the Tyburn Hill Road.

More bad luck, piling on top of other. As that playwright whose work Anthony's paramour Liz was so fond of quoting had put it in one of his plays, when troubles come they come not single spies but in battalions.

"Nothing for it," he muttered. "I'll have to go back there and seen if I can calm down the stupid bit—ah, Their Majesties. Richard, you keep the main body of the company here. Move into formation in case the Band ahead of us thinks of doing something foolish, but don't do anything else unless you're attacked. Patrick, take your men onto that side road and do the same."

He turned his horse and headed back for the carriage, moving as quickly as he dared given the icy footing. Which wasn't quickly at all, since he could sense the nervousness of his mount. Like any good horseman, Leebrick knew full well how much horses hated bad footing—and how easy it was to panic even an experienced warhorse if his rider seemed agitated or unsteady.

From their vantage point atop Tyburn Hill, three men could see the situation unfolding below them quite well, despite the sleet. The hill wasn't especially tall but it had a good view of the gallows. In fact, it was the popular spot for the mob to gather for entertainment when a hanging was in progress.

"Oh, this is shaping up very nicely, indeed," chortled Richard Boyle, the earl of Cork. His good humor completely overrode the discomfort that, until just a minute or two ago, had kept him shivering in his coat and made him wish he'd never agreed to this affair—or, at least, hadn't been foolish enough to come watch it himself. "My congratulations, Endymion."

One of his two companions shrugged, the motion barely visible under the heavy outerwear he had on himself. "Won't come to much, of course, Your Lordship. Not with Leebrick commanding the force."

"A steady man, I take it."

"Oh, yes, very steady. That's why Wentworth uses him for these things."

"Any chance—"

"No, I'm afraid not. Leebrick's just a mercenary, that's all. The man has neither interest in politics nor any desire to get involved in them. I made two attempts—my agents, rather—before I wrote him off."

The third man grunted, a bit humorously. "Even with my money to wave under his nose. The captains of the Trained Bands weren't so particular, I can tell you that, when I put them on notice last week that the king might be leaving for Oxford some time soon. Of course, it helped that the agent I used as my go-between was a known Puritan."

The earl frowned. "Paul, that seems a bit unwise."

Sir Paul Pindar pulled his hand out from his coat where he was keeping it from the chill, and made a little deprecating motion. "The man's not
actually
a Non-Conformist, Your Lordship, he just keeps up the pretense. I find it useful, from time to time."

"Ah." The earl peered down at the scene below, squinting to shield his eyes from the sleet. "Well, let's wait a bit longer to see how it unfolds. Even just as it is, that damned Wentworth will find another stain added to his reputation with the king. All we could hope for, of course."

Boyle glanced back at their horses, being held by servants a little ways down the hill. He was tempted to simply leave. They'd already accomplished their aim, and the conditions were truly miserable. There was nothing quite like a sleet to chill a man down to his bones, even if the temperature wasn't nearly as cold as a bright sunny day in winter. Especially at the age of sixty-six.

As he drew closer, Captain Leebrick could see that the eight horses pulling the royal carriage were considerably more nervous than his own, even though they weren't moving at all any longer. The queen's shrieks—half fear; half fury—were stirring them up. The coachman riding the near lead horse was doing his best to keep the beast steady, but his efforts were continually undermined by the queen's outbursts. When she was agitated, Henrietta Maria's voice had a particular shrill tone that would put a stone's nerves on edge. It didn't help any that she also tended to lapse into her native French, which confused her servants—and probably added to the horses' agitation. Anthony couldn't prove it, but he was certain that horses grew familiar with a certain language, even if they couldn't understand the actual words.

He pulled up alongside the carriage window, after glancing down the side road where a new Trained Band was advancing. Just a glance was all it took, to his experienced eye. That group posed no danger at all, even now, much less once Patrick got his men in position. From the queen's squeals of panic you would have thought those apprentices moving up the icy road were a veritable horde of Barbary pirates, already clambering aboard. In fact, they were still at least fifty yards distant and were moving across the treacherous footing in a very careful and gingerly manner. He could see two of the lads sprawled on their buttocks, where they must have slipped and fell. One of them was still clutching his club, but the second had two other Bandsmen yelling angrily down at him. He'd probably been carrying the pike that Anthony could see lying on the road a few yards away, and had come close to injuring them when he lost his grip on it.

Leebrick had chosen to approach the carriage window on that side in the hopes that because he and his horse would block the sight of the Bandsmen, he might thereby steady the royal nerves. Unfortunately, that also put him on the queen's side, instead of the king's. Dealing with Charles himself under these circumstances would have been difficult, but manageable. Leebrick had no high opinion of England's monarch, any more than most people he knew did. Still, being fair, Charles was not really given to hysteria. He was simply unpleasant to deal with because of his unreasoning mulishness and petulance. Now, alas, he had to try to talk to the king by shouting across the queen—shouting, because her French gibberish was so loud that speaking in a normal tone was impossible.

Luckily, Anthony didn't speak French, never having served under French colors. His German was fluent, his Spanish near fluent, and his Italian was passable. But he didn't comprehend French at all—certainly not spewed at him in an angry stream—and the king knew it. So, later, if need be, Anthony could claim he'd certainly never intended to offend Her Majesty, he'd simply not grasped what she'd been saying to him. Which probably didn't amount to anything more than curses and condemnation anyway.

"Your Majesty," he began, leaning over from the saddle, "I can assure you the situation is quite under control. Give me ten minutes—no more—and I'll have these rascals out of here."

"I need to get to Oxford!" the king shouted.

"Yes, I understand, Your Majesty. As I say—"

He broke off, unable to keep from wincing. The queen had stuck her face in the window and shouted something at him.

"As I say—"

She shouted again.

"Just allow me—"

She shouted again. The king waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal, and moved to comfort his wife. Even in a royal carriage, that meant pushing aside some blankets to reach her. English coaches were still primitive compared to continental ones, with the passengers resting on trunks covered with cushions and blankets instead of real seats.

But the hand gesture was enough to satisfy protocol. Heaving a sigh of relief after he turned his horse away, Anthony took a moment to gauge the situation on the side road before returning to the front of the column.

No danger there at all, now. Leebrick had chosen Patrick to cover that flank because the Irishman's men were more lightly equipped than most of the company and could move very quickly. In battle, he usually used them as skirmishers.

Lightly equipped or not, even just the thirty of them, they were more than a match for the Trained Band on the side road. They were outnumbered perhaps two-to-one, but that made no difference. Welch's skirmishers were mostly armed with rifled muskets and swords, with just enough pikemen to form a shield. One volley—if needed at all, which Leebrick doubted—would take down the front rank of the Bandsmen and send the rest scampering.

He still hoped nothing of the sort would be necessary, though. Wentworth had given him clear instructions to handle the Trained Bands firmly but avoid, if at all possible, the sort of mayhem that would stir up the whole populace. It was a sensible policy, in Anthony's judgment—and, by temperament, he wasn't a man given to pointless bloodshed himself.