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Authors: Susanna Gregory
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gallows.
It was still raining when they emerged from the church, Leybourn resting a hand on Chaloner’s shoulder to maintain the pretence
of queasiness. Heavy clouds brought an early dusk, and lamps already gleamed in Westminster Hall and the shops around the
old clock tower. They set slanting shafts of light gleaming on the wet cobbles, and everywhere people seemed to be in a hurry,
wanting to be at home on a night that promised cold and miserable weather.
‘Smegergill,’ said Chaloner as they walked. ‘Do you know him?’
Leybourn shook his head. ‘Thurloe might, though.’
Chaloner had wanted to visit Thurloe anyway, to tell him he was home, so he and Leybourn walked up King Street, then along
The Strand towards Chancery Lane and Lincoln’s Inn. Boys with burning torches offered to light their way, and Leybourn hired
one after he skidded and almost fell in some slippery entrails that had been dumped outside a butcher’s shop.
‘Are you sure you should be doing this?’ he asked Chaloner as they went. ‘Visiting Thurloe, I mean. He
was
Spymaster General for Cromwell’s government, andhe is still considered a dangerous enemy of the state, despite having been dismissed from all his posts and living in quiet
retirement. You do work for the Lord Chancellor, after all.’
‘The Earl does not consider Thurloe a threat, and nor does he object to my continued association with him. It would not matter
if he did, anyway. He cannot dictate who my friends should be.’
‘Some would say that puts a question-mark over your loyalty to him. Thurloe hired you and trained you, and you remained under
his command for nigh on ten years.’
‘All of it overseas,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘Not once did I spy on the King or his retinue – I only ever gathered intelligence
on hostile foreign regimes. And Clarendon knows it.’
Leybourn raised his hands defensively. ‘
I
do not doubt your allegiance to the Royalist government – I am just telling you what others might say.’
Chaloner made no reply, and Leybourn dropped the subject when they arrived at their destination. Lincoln’s Inn, one of four
London establishments that licensed lawyers, comprised a range of buildings around two pleasant courtyards. There was a large
private garden to the north, and Chaloner was astonished when he saw the change in it. When he had left, there had been an
overgrown chaos of elms, beeches and oaks, all shading long-grassed meadows. Now the trees had been pruned or felled, and
everything bespoke order and neatness. There were gravelled paths for the benchers – the Inn’s ruling body – to stroll around,
and little box hedges kept other plants within their allotted spaces. It looked more like an idealised painting than a real
garden.
‘Does Thurloe mind this?’ The ex-Spymaster hadderived much pleasure from his early-morning walks in the wilderness, and Chaloner was not sure the tamed version would be
quite the same.
Leybourn smiled. ‘He loves it, much to his surprise. The paths mean he can keep his feet dry, and you know what he is like
with his health – always fretting about becoming ill.’
They made their way to the smaller and older of the Inn’s yards, known as Dial Court. Back in the spring, Dial Court had boasted
a sundial – a massively ugly affair of curly iron and oddly placed railings, inexplicably placed so it rarely caught the sun.
It had been removed, and in its place was something that looked like a hollow globe.
‘It is a device for tracking the movements of the stars,’ explained Leybourn, seeing Chaloner look curiously at it. ‘The old
sundial rusted in the wet weather, and pieces kept falling off, so I recommended this instead. The benchers are very pleased
with it, and spend hours out here on clear nights.’
Chaloner doubted there would be many of those – even when it was not raining, London’s skies were filled with the smoke from
thousands of fires.
It was still raining when they emerged from the church, Leybourn resting a hand on Chaloner’s shoulder to maintain the pretence
of queasiness. Heavy clouds brought an early dusk, and lamps already gleamed in Westminster Hall and the shops around the
old clock tower. They set slanting shafts of light gleaming on the wet cobbles, and everywhere people seemed to be in a hurry,
wanting to be at home on a night that promised cold and miserable weather.
‘Smegergill,’ said Chaloner as they walked. ‘Do you know him?’
Leybourn shook his head. ‘Thurloe might, though.’
Chaloner had wanted to visit Thurloe anyway, to tell him he was home, so he and Leybourn walked up King Street, then along
The Strand towards Chancery Lane and Lincoln’s Inn. Boys with burning torches offered to light their way, and Leybourn hired
one after he skidded and almost fell in some slippery entrails that had been dumped outside a butcher’s shop.
‘Are you sure you should be doing this?’ he asked Chaloner as they went. ‘Visiting Thurloe, I mean. He
was
Spymaster General for Cromwell’s government, andhe is still considered a dangerous enemy of the state, despite having been dismissed from all his posts and living in quiet
retirement. You do work for the Lord Chancellor, after all.’
‘The Earl does not consider Thurloe a threat, and nor does he object to my continued association with him. It would not matter
if he did, anyway. He cannot dictate who my friends should be.’
‘Some would say that puts a question-mark over your loyalty to him. Thurloe hired you and trained you, and you remained under
his command for nigh on ten years.’
‘All of it overseas,’ Chaloner pointed out. ‘Not once did I spy on the King or his retinue – I only ever gathered intelligence
on hostile foreign regimes. And Clarendon knows it.’
Leybourn raised his hands defensively. ‘
I
do not doubt your allegiance to the Royalist government – I am just telling you what others might say.’
Chaloner made no reply, and Leybourn dropped the subject when they arrived at their destination. Lincoln’s Inn, one of four
London establishments that licensed lawyers, comprised a range of buildings around two pleasant courtyards. There was a large
private garden to the north, and Chaloner was astonished when he saw the change in it. When he had left, there had been an
overgrown chaos of elms, beeches and oaks, all shading long-grassed meadows. Now the trees had been pruned or felled, and
everything bespoke order and neatness. There were gravelled paths for the benchers – the Inn’s ruling body – to stroll around,
and little box hedges kept other plants within their allotted spaces. It looked more like an idealised painting than a real
garden.
‘Does Thurloe mind this?’ The ex-Spymaster hadderived much pleasure from his early-morning walks in the wilderness, and Chaloner was not sure the tamed version would be
quite the same.
Leybourn smiled. ‘He loves it, much to his surprise. The paths mean he can keep his feet dry, and you know what he is like
with his health – always fretting about becoming ill.’
They made their way to the smaller and older of the Inn’s yards, known as Dial Court. Back in the spring, Dial Court had boasted
a sundial – a massively ugly affair of curly iron and oddly placed railings, inexplicably placed so it rarely caught the sun.
It had been removed, and in its place was something that looked like a hollow globe.
‘It is a device for tracking the movements of the stars,’ explained Leybourn, seeing Chaloner look curiously at it. ‘The old
sundial rusted in the wet weather, and pieces kept falling off, so I recommended this instead. The benchers are very pleased
with it, and spend hours out here on clear nights.’
Chaloner doubted there would be many of those – even when it was not raining, London’s skies were filled with the smoke from
thousands of fires.
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