An Instance of the Fingerpost (33 page)

I hope I will not be considered credulous if I say that this strange encounter was the last time I saw my father; I am convinced that his soul was there, and that the disturbance I caused played a great part in the events that came after. I do not remember him well; after the age of about six I met him only a few times, as the war meant I was sent first to live with the great-aunt I have mentioned, then in the household of Sir William Compton in Warwickshire, where I spent those years under the tutelage of Dr Grove.

My father tried to come and assure himself of my progress, although his duties ensured that this was rare. On one occasion only did I spend more than a day in his company, and that was shortly before he was forced into his second and last exile. He was everything a child could hope for in a father; stern, disciplined and wholly conscious of the obligations which exist between a man and his heir. He taught me little directly; but I knew that if I could be half the subject he was, then the king (should he ever return) would count me as one of his best and most faithful servants.

He was not one of these effeminate apologies for gentry whom we see strutting and mincing their way through the court these days. He eschewed fine clothes (although he was fine looking when he chose) and was disdainful of books. Nor was he a great conversationalist, idling away his hours in talk when practical things were to be done. A soldier, in short, and no man was ever grander in leading a charge. He was lost in the welter of back-stabbing and conspiracy that the courtier must master; too honest to dissimulate, too frank ever to win
favour. It marked him out, and if it was a fatal flaw, I cannot consider he was diminished by it. His fidelity to his wife was as pure as a poet could imagine, and his courage a byword in the army. He was at his happiest at Harland House, our main seat in Lincolnshire, and when he left it he was as grieved as if his wife had died. And rightly so, for the land at Harland Wyte had been in our family for generations; it
was
our family, you might say, and he knew and loved every square inch of it.

The sight of his soul in such distress rekindled my enthusiasm for my task, as it was clear it was tormented by the injustice he still suffered. So, when I had sufficiently recovered my strength, I concocted a story about the illness of an aunt from whom I had expectations to gain my tutor’s permission to leave town, and set off one bright morning for Windsor. I coached as far as Reading, as the university has no monopoly on the route and prices are affordable, and then walked the remaining fifteen miles. I slept in a field, as it was still just warm enough and I did not wish to spend unnecessarily, but breakfasted in a tavern in the town, so I could brush myself down and wipe my face and present a reasonably proper appearance. I also learned from the keeper that Lord Mordaunt – whom I discovered was bitterly detested in the town for his lack of extravagance – was indeed in residence as warden of the castle, having returned only three days before from Tunbridge Wells.

There was no point in dallying; having come so far, it would have been foolish indeed to hesitate. As Thomas had said, a refusal was the worst I could suffer. So I marched boldly to the castle, then spent the next three hours sitting in an ante-room while my request for an audience was conveyed through an army of lackeys.

I was grateful for my breakfast, as it was well past dinnertime before I received any response. In the interval I marched up and down, awaiting the condescension of the mighty, vowing that I would never behave in such a way to those seeking my patronage when my fortune turned. A promise, I must say, I broke the moment I had the opportunity to do so, as by then I understood the purpose of all this attending: it establishes the proper boundaries, creates a due deference amongst those seeking favours and (most practically) discourages all but the most serious. And eventually my reward came
when a servant, more cordial now than before, opened the door with ceremony, bowed and said that Lord Mordaunt would grant me an interview. If I would come this way . . .

I had hoped that simple curiosity, at least, would prompt just such a response and was glad that my guess had proven correct. It was not often, I imagine, that anyone had the presumption to present himself on the noble gentleman’s doorstep in such a fashion.

I knew little of the man whom I had travelled to see, except that all expected him to become a figure of great consequence in the government, a Secretary of State at the very least, and soon to improve his barony to a full earldom because of his favour with Lord Clarendon, the Lord Chancellor and the most powerful man in the land. He was a brave plotter on the king’s behalf, a man of great fortune from one of the highest families in the land, with a notably virtuous wife and the sort of good looks that make any man a place. His devotion to the king’s service was all the more remarkable since his family had kept out of the struggle as much as possible, and were masters at not committing themselves and emerging with their fortunes intact. Mordaunt himself was said to be cautious in advice, but bold when needful, and disinclined to faction and petty squabbling. This was the surface appearance of the man, at least. His only weakness was impatience and an abrupt way of dealing with those he considered incompetent: but that was a great flaw, for there were many such at court, and even more who wished ill on any friend of Clarendon.

I approached through a series of rooms until eventually I was led into his presence: a grand and, in my mind, unnecessarily pompous proceeding. At least the final room was small and commodious enough, a bureau stacked with piles of paper and shelves of books. I made my bow and waited for him to address me first.

‘I gather you are the son of Sir James Prestcott. Is that correct?’

I nodded. He was a man of medium height, with a well-formed face spoiled only by a nose disproportionately small. His figure was fine, especially in the legs, his movements gracious and, however grand the ceremony of introduction, he cast that aside the moment that the interview began, and engaged in the most amiable conversation which gave the lie to rumours of his pride and haughtiness. I came
away admiring the man for his sagacity; he seemed a worthy comrade in arms for my father, and I believed that each had been equally honoured by the trust and love of the other. The contrast with a man like Thurloe could not be greater, I thought: the one tall, fair and open, like a Roman of old in bearing and manner, the other wizened and twisted, operating in the dark, never doing anything in the open, always using the instruments of deceit.

‘An unusual approach, verging on the discourteous,’ he commented severely. ‘I imagine you must have a good reason.’

‘The very best, My Lord,’ I said. ‘I greatly regret troubling you, but I have no one else to turn to. You alone can help me, if you will. I can offer nothing in return, but my needs are small. I want a little of your time; that is all.’

‘You cannot be so foolish as to expect preferment. I could not help you in that regard.’

‘I want to talk to people who knew my father. To clear his honour of stain.’

He considered this remark fully, digesting all the implications it contained, before he replied, gently but cautiously, ‘That is commendable in a son, and understandable in a child whose fortune depends on it. But I think you will have an uphill struggle.’

In the past, my tendency when faced with such remarks was to erupt into a burning rage, during which I would voice all manner of angry ripostes; as a youth I returned home with many a black eye and bloody nose. But I knew such behaviour would not help here: I wanted help, and that could only be obtained through politeness and deference. So I choked back my anger, and maintained a serene countenance.

‘It is a struggle I must undertake. I believe my father was innocent of all wrong, but I do not even know what he was accused of. It is my right to know and my duty to repudiate the accusations.’

‘Your family, surely . . .’

‘They know little, and tell less. Forgive me for interrupting, sir. But I need to know at first hand what transpired. As you were one of the key figures in His Majesty’s Great Trust, and are reputed for your fairness, I thought to approach you first of all.’

A little delicate flattery often oils the wheels of converse, I find; even
when it is recognised for what it is, such comments show a recognition of indebtedness. The only requirement is that the compliments be not too coarse, and do not jar on the ear too loudly.

‘Do you think my father was guilty?’

Mordaunt considered the question, still with a faint air of surprise on his face that the discussion was taking place at all. He made me wait a long time so that the kindness he did me was fully appreciated before he sat down, then indicated he would permit me to sit also.

‘Do I think your father was guilty?’ he repeated thoughtfully. ‘I’m afraid I do, young man. I tried hard to believe in his innocence. Such belief was earned by a brave comrade, even though we rarely saw eye to eye. You see, I never had any direct indication myself that he was a traitor. Do you understand how we operated then? Did he tell you?’

I told him that I was working more or less in the dark; I had rarely encountered my father once I had come to an age at which such matters were understandable to me, and then he had been as discreet with his family as, I am convinced, he had been with everyone else. There was always the possibility that the soldiers would come for us, and he wanted us to know as little as possible for our sake and his own.

Mordaunt nodded, and thought awhile. ‘You must understand’, he said quietly, ‘that I – very reluctantly – concluded that your father was indeed a traitor.’ I moved to protest here, but he held up his hand to quieten me. ‘Please. Hear me out. That does not mean that I would not be happy to be proven wrong. He always struck me as a good man, and it shocked me to think that was a sham. It is said that the face mirrors a man’s soul, and that we can read there whatever is written on his heart. Not with him. With your father, I read wrongly. So if you can prove this was not the case, then I will be in your debt.’

I thanked him for his openness – the first time, indeed, I had come across such an even devotion to justice. I thought to myself, that if I could persuade this man, then I would have a case; he would not judge unfairly.

‘Now,’ he went on, ‘how exactly do you plan to proceed?’

I do not remember exactly what I said, but I fear that it was of a touching naïveté. Something about finding the true traitor and forcing him to confess. I added that I was already certain John Thurloe was
the man behind it all, and that I intended to kill him when I had the evidence. However I phrased it, my remarks brought a small sigh from Mordaunt.

‘And how do you intend to avoid hanging yourself?’

‘I suppose I must discredit the evidence against my father.’

‘Which evidence are you talking about?’

I bowed my head as the depths of my ignorance forced my confession. ‘I do not know.’

Lord Mordaunt looked at me carefully awhile, although whether it was with pity or contempt I could not make out. ‘Perhaps’, he said after a while, ‘it might help you if I told you something of those days, and what I know of the events. I do not speak because I believe you are correct, but you do have a right to know what was said.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ I said simply, and my gratitude to him then was whole and unfeigned.

‘You are too young to remember much, and were certainly too young to understand,’ he began, ‘but until the very last moment His Majesty’s cause in this country seemed doomed to extinction. A few people continued to fight against Cromwell’s tyranny, but only because they thought it right to do so, not because there was any anticipation of success. The number of people sick of despotism increased year by year, but they were too cowed to act without a lead. The task of giving that lead was taken on by a handful of loyal subjects, of whom one was your father. They were given the name of the Sealed Knot, because they bound each to the other so tightly through their love of each other and their king.

‘They accomplished nothing, except to keep hope alive in men’s hearts. Certainly they were active; scarcely a month went by without some scheme or another – a rising here, an assassination there. If these had come to fruition, Cromwell would have been dead a dozen times long before he died in his bed. But nothing of substance took place, and Cromwell’s army was always there, a vast block against anyone who wanted change. Unless that army could be defeated, the road to the Restoration would be for ever closed, and you do not defeat the most effective army in the world with hope and pinpricks.’

I suppose I must have frowned at his criticism of these heroic, lonely men and their struggle, and he noticed it and smiled regretfully. ‘I do
not disparage,’ he said softly, ‘I state the truth. If you are serious you need all the information, good and bad.’

‘I apologise. You are right, of course.’

‘The Sealed Knot had no money, because the king had no money. Gold can buy loyalty, but loyalty, on its own, cannot buy weapons. The French and the Spanish kept His Majesty on a shoestring, allowing him enough to live in his exile, but not giving enough to do anything. But we were ever hopeful, and I was entrusted with the task of organising the king’s men in England so they might act should our circumstances change. I should have been unknown to Thurloe’s office, as I’d been too young to fight in the war and passed those years in Savoy for my education instead. None the less, who I was became known very swiftly: I was betrayed, and could only have been betrayed by a member of the Knot, who knew what I was doing. Thurloe’s men swept me up, along with many of my associates, at the very moment when they knew we had incriminating documents on us.’

‘Excuse me,’ I said, foolishly risking a second interruption, even though I could see the first had displeased him, ‘but when was this?’

‘In 1658,’ he said. ‘I will not bother you with the details, but my friends, and chiefly my beloved wife, beggared themselves in bribes and so confused the panel of judges who examined me that I was released, and escaped before they realised the size of their error. No such good fortune was with the others. They were tortured and hanged. More importantly, it meant all my efforts in the king’s cause were in vain: the new organisation I had laboured to construct was destroyed before it even began its work.’