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Authors: Susanna Gregory
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one.
The second assignment was spying on the Earl of Bristol. Chaloner knew he would have no trouble eavesdropping on sensitive
conversations, because it was something at which he excelled. The challenge lay in knowing whom to stalk, because he was not
sure which courtiers had taken Bristol’s side, and who had remained loyal to Clarendon. He cursed his lack of knowledge about
British politics: identifying the right men would take time, which might be something his earl did not have.
He turned his thoughts to his disguise. He recalled Vanders from Holland, a wizened, white-bearded ancient who spoke eccentric
English. Chaloner could not make himself small, but he knew how to appear old and stooped, and he supposed poor English might
encourage people to say things around him they might otherwise keep to themselves. He only hoped no one had either attended
or heard about the upholsterer’s lavish funeral in The Hague three years earlier.
Chaloner awoke to another grey day, already thinking about Vanders. The upholsterer had been wealthy but mean, and people
had mocked his slovenly appearance. Chaloner rummaged in the chest where he kept the materials for his disguises, and emerged
with an unfashionably short jerkin and a pair of petticoat breeches – an item of clothing so voluminous that it was possible
to put both legs in the same hole and not notice. In a city where the current fashion was for long coats, knee-breeches and
elaborate lacy socks known as ‘boot hose’, he knew he would stand out as suitably outmoded, while at the same time not looking
sodisreputable that he would not be allowed inside White Hall.
He found an ancient horsehair wig, and ensured all his own hair was tucked well inside it – it would only take one strand
of brown to expose him as a man thirty years younger than the fellow he was attempting to emulate. Then, using a trick Scot
had taught him, he glued a light coating of lambswool to his cheeks and chin to produce a tatty white beard. He applied powders
and paints to construct some very plausible wrinkles around his eyes, and spent several minutes practising Vanders’s crabbed,
arthritic walk. He disliked being in White Hall without a sword, but Vanders had never worn one, so reluctantly he set it
aside. He did not dispense with the arsenal of knives he kept concealed in his clothing, however. There was a limit, even
to the best of disguises.
He went to the larder for something to eat before he began his day, but was not very inspired by the wizened turnips or the
sack of wheat that sat amid the smattering of mouse droppings. He closed and locked the door, then clattered down the stairs,
stopping to greet his landlord, who was waiting to ask whether he had seen a raker loitering around the house the previous
morning. Fortunately for Chaloner, Daniel Ellis had not yet associated the appearance of some very odd characters with his
tenant’s vague explanations of what he did for a living. Ellis gazed curiously at Chaloner’s attire.
‘That is an odd assemblage. It makes you look three decades older.’
‘Good,’ said Chaloner. ‘My brother wants me to meet a woman with a view to marriage.’
Ellis tapped the side of his nose in manly understanding.‘Well, that costume should certainly put her off. She will not want to wed Methuselah.’
The clocks were chiming six o’clock when Chaloner stepped out of the door on to Fetter Lane, and the city was wide awake.
Carts rattled up and down, laden with wood, coal, hay, cloth and country-grown vegetables for the markets at Cheapside and
Gracechurch Street. The harsh voices of street-sellers echoed between the tall buildings – a baker offered fresh pies, although
they were black with dried gravy and dead flies; a milkmaid had cream in the pail she carried over her shoulder; and children
tried to sell flowers they had picked before dawn in the nearby villages of Paddington and Stepney. It
The second assignment was spying on the Earl of Bristol. Chaloner knew he would have no trouble eavesdropping on sensitive
conversations, because it was something at which he excelled. The challenge lay in knowing whom to stalk, because he was not
sure which courtiers had taken Bristol’s side, and who had remained loyal to Clarendon. He cursed his lack of knowledge about
British politics: identifying the right men would take time, which might be something his earl did not have.
He turned his thoughts to his disguise. He recalled Vanders from Holland, a wizened, white-bearded ancient who spoke eccentric
English. Chaloner could not make himself small, but he knew how to appear old and stooped, and he supposed poor English might
encourage people to say things around him they might otherwise keep to themselves. He only hoped no one had either attended
or heard about the upholsterer’s lavish funeral in The Hague three years earlier.
Chaloner awoke to another grey day, already thinking about Vanders. The upholsterer had been wealthy but mean, and people
had mocked his slovenly appearance. Chaloner rummaged in the chest where he kept the materials for his disguises, and emerged
with an unfashionably short jerkin and a pair of petticoat breeches – an item of clothing so voluminous that it was possible
to put both legs in the same hole and not notice. In a city where the current fashion was for long coats, knee-breeches and
elaborate lacy socks known as ‘boot hose’, he knew he would stand out as suitably outmoded, while at the same time not looking
sodisreputable that he would not be allowed inside White Hall.
He found an ancient horsehair wig, and ensured all his own hair was tucked well inside it – it would only take one strand
of brown to expose him as a man thirty years younger than the fellow he was attempting to emulate. Then, using a trick Scot
had taught him, he glued a light coating of lambswool to his cheeks and chin to produce a tatty white beard. He applied powders
and paints to construct some very plausible wrinkles around his eyes, and spent several minutes practising Vanders’s crabbed,
arthritic walk. He disliked being in White Hall without a sword, but Vanders had never worn one, so reluctantly he set it
aside. He did not dispense with the arsenal of knives he kept concealed in his clothing, however. There was a limit, even
to the best of disguises.
He went to the larder for something to eat before he began his day, but was not very inspired by the wizened turnips or the
sack of wheat that sat amid the smattering of mouse droppings. He closed and locked the door, then clattered down the stairs,
stopping to greet his landlord, who was waiting to ask whether he had seen a raker loitering around the house the previous
morning. Fortunately for Chaloner, Daniel Ellis had not yet associated the appearance of some very odd characters with his
tenant’s vague explanations of what he did for a living. Ellis gazed curiously at Chaloner’s attire.
‘That is an odd assemblage. It makes you look three decades older.’
‘Good,’ said Chaloner. ‘My brother wants me to meet a woman with a view to marriage.’
Ellis tapped the side of his nose in manly understanding.‘Well, that costume should certainly put her off. She will not want to wed Methuselah.’
The clocks were chiming six o’clock when Chaloner stepped out of the door on to Fetter Lane, and the city was wide awake.
Carts rattled up and down, laden with wood, coal, hay, cloth and country-grown vegetables for the markets at Cheapside and
Gracechurch Street. The harsh voices of street-sellers echoed between the tall buildings – a baker offered fresh pies, although
they were black with dried gravy and dead flies; a milkmaid had cream in the pail she carried over her shoulder; and children
tried to sell flowers they had picked before dawn in the nearby villages of Paddington and Stepney. It
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