feeling his stride lengthen, enjoying the feel of the path under his feet, solid ground and his to walk on. Once they were clear of the town the sentry would drop back a bit – they hardly felt comfortable with each other – and he could pretend that he was alone.
‘Seymour.’ The sound jolted him.
The unexpected sound and, he realized, the knowledge of his name.
One of the men at the boat – he had reached it without noticing – standing against it now, looking along the path towards the sentry then murmuring a word over his shoulder to the other boatman. The other glanced up, then just stood and ambled away past him in the direction of the town. The first man had turned towards him again: an old face, worn but hard –
‘Shay!’
‘A word or two, if you will.’ A glance back along the path, and he pulled off a rough and shapeless cap. ‘Please preserve your calm and your stance. I am a humble river man, you are bored enough to talk to me. Your sentinel will give us a few minutes, I imagine.’
Mortimer Shay, leaning against a little fisher-boat in anonymous working clothes, a ghost from history come out of the waters in the middle of the Isle of Wight, not a mile from the King. Seymour said, ‘We thought you dead, or abroad.’
‘I am returned to office.’
‘The devil you are.’
‘Nevertheless.’
‘I rather think the King decides such matters.’
‘I rather think the King should begin to listen to better advice.’
Seymour’s shoulders dropped. Eventually he nodded.
‘By all means check with the Committee. You will have channels of communication, no doubt.’
‘Be sure that I’ll check, Shay. Where is your Committee now, whoever they are? Fled with the rest?’
Shay shifted in the sand. ‘The Committee is everywhere and nowhere. I presume that most are abroad now. One or two in Scotland, perhaps.’ He looked up towards the town and the castle sitting over it. ‘None, I’d imagine, is here. Confinement does not sit naturally with the Committee.’
‘But you’re not sure where they are?’
‘I’m not sure
who
they are. I can hardly be sure where they are, can I? How does His Majesty?’
Seymour hesitated. Out on the water, two ducks were drifting with the flow, and his eye followed the movement. ‘He lives outside this world, Shay. I think he bears this waiting – this eternal, damned waiting – better than any normal man might. But the little indignities of confinement irritate him. The disrespects. The dependences. He is often peevish.’
Shay nodded. ‘Our misfortune in finding ourselves a Scottish papist for a King.’
‘His Majesty is no papist, Shay, and it’s treason to say it!’
‘Papists are lively fellows, in my experience, but fragile. Scotsmen are miserable but enduring. Either is perfectly tolerable, but they’re an ill combination.’
‘Shay—’
‘The waiting must continue.’
The voice had been immediately firm and unchallengeable. ‘We wonder whither it leads us.’
Shay shook his head in sudden intensity. ‘That’s for the priests, Seymour; the future – destiny. The King must just survive today – and he must do it every day. You must help him to it.’ Seymour shifted uneasily. ‘There is no alternative to the King! While he endures they must inevitably turn to him. If he endures, he wins.’
‘Easily said.’
‘The Army and the Parliament are different, Seymour, and they want different things. But for now, they each need the King. Easy enough for you, do you see? Merely by existing, the King tries and worsens the differences among his enemies.’ He snapped a glance towards the sentry, still a way off and indifferent. A rough smile. ‘Keep at it, Seymour. You’ve endured decades; you’ll manage a few weeks.’
Seymour nodded uncertainly. He too glanced towards the sentry, and instinctively lowered his voice. ‘Is there no chance of escape from here, Shay?’
‘I’m sure I could contrive three or four chances, if you gave
‘Seymour.’ The sound jolted him.
The unexpected sound and, he realized, the knowledge of his name.
One of the men at the boat – he had reached it without noticing – standing against it now, looking along the path towards the sentry then murmuring a word over his shoulder to the other boatman. The other glanced up, then just stood and ambled away past him in the direction of the town. The first man had turned towards him again: an old face, worn but hard –
‘Shay!’
‘A word or two, if you will.’ A glance back along the path, and he pulled off a rough and shapeless cap. ‘Please preserve your calm and your stance. I am a humble river man, you are bored enough to talk to me. Your sentinel will give us a few minutes, I imagine.’
Mortimer Shay, leaning against a little fisher-boat in anonymous working clothes, a ghost from history come out of the waters in the middle of the Isle of Wight, not a mile from the King. Seymour said, ‘We thought you dead, or abroad.’
‘I am returned to office.’
‘The devil you are.’
‘Nevertheless.’
‘I rather think the King decides such matters.’
‘I rather think the King should begin to listen to better advice.’
Seymour’s shoulders dropped. Eventually he nodded.
‘By all means check with the Committee. You will have channels of communication, no doubt.’
‘Be sure that I’ll check, Shay. Where is your Committee now, whoever they are? Fled with the rest?’
Shay shifted in the sand. ‘The Committee is everywhere and nowhere. I presume that most are abroad now. One or two in Scotland, perhaps.’ He looked up towards the town and the castle sitting over it. ‘None, I’d imagine, is here. Confinement does not sit naturally with the Committee.’
‘But you’re not sure where they are?’
‘I’m not sure
who
they are. I can hardly be sure where they are, can I? How does His Majesty?’
Seymour hesitated. Out on the water, two ducks were drifting with the flow, and his eye followed the movement. ‘He lives outside this world, Shay. I think he bears this waiting – this eternal, damned waiting – better than any normal man might. But the little indignities of confinement irritate him. The disrespects. The dependences. He is often peevish.’
Shay nodded. ‘Our misfortune in finding ourselves a Scottish papist for a King.’
‘His Majesty is no papist, Shay, and it’s treason to say it!’
‘Papists are lively fellows, in my experience, but fragile. Scotsmen are miserable but enduring. Either is perfectly tolerable, but they’re an ill combination.’
‘Shay—’
‘The waiting must continue.’
The voice had been immediately firm and unchallengeable. ‘We wonder whither it leads us.’
Shay shook his head in sudden intensity. ‘That’s for the priests, Seymour; the future – destiny. The King must just survive today – and he must do it every day. You must help him to it.’ Seymour shifted uneasily. ‘There is no alternative to the King! While he endures they must inevitably turn to him. If he endures, he wins.’
‘Easily said.’
‘The Army and the Parliament are different, Seymour, and they want different things. But for now, they each need the King. Easy enough for you, do you see? Merely by existing, the King tries and worsens the differences among his enemies.’ He snapped a glance towards the sentry, still a way off and indifferent. A rough smile. ‘Keep at it, Seymour. You’ve endured decades; you’ll manage a few weeks.’
Seymour nodded uncertainly. He too glanced towards the sentry, and instinctively lowered his voice. ‘Is there no chance of escape from here, Shay?’
‘I’m sure I could contrive three or four chances, if you gave
Similar Books
