The Clerkenwell Affair

Book 14: Adventures of Thomas Chaloner

by Susanna Gregory

Genres: General Fiction; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

In the spring of 1666 everyone's first reaction to a sudden death at the palace of White Hall is that the plague has struck, but the killing of Thomas Chiffinch was by design, not disease. Chiffinch was holder of two influential posts - Keeper of the Closet and Keeper of the Jewels - and rival courtiers have made no secret of their wish to succeed to those offices. To Thomas Chaloner, ordered to undertake the investigation, such avarice gives a whole host of suspects an ample motive for murder.

The same courtiers are at the heart of the royal entourage endorsing the King's licentious and ribald way of life, and Chaloner has some sympathy with the atmosphere of outrage and disgust at such behaviour. London's citizens, already irked by the wealthy fleeing to the country at the outbreak of the plague, have scant patience with the Court on its return. The city is abuzz with rumours of dissent and rebellion, fuelled by predictions from a soothsayer in Clerkenwell of a rain of fire destroying the capital on Good Friday.

Chaloner initially dismisses such talk as nonsense, but as he uncovers ever more connections to Clerkenwell among his suspects, he begins to fear that there is also design behind the rumours - and that, come Easter Day, the King and his Court might find themselves the focus of yet another rebellion.

Release date: August 6, 2020

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 464

Sample

The Palace of White Hall, London, 1 April 1666

Thomas Chiffinch was in an awkward position. He held two important Court posts – Keeper of the Closet and Keeper of the Jewels – and had a reputation for efficiency, refinement and discretion. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of his brother Will, who was one of the worst offenders for shaping the Court’s current reputation as a place of debauchery, corruption and greed.

Chiffinch wished Will would behave with more decorum. He might be loved by the King and His Majesty’s dissolute friends, but the rest of the country hated him, and there was growing anger at the brazen squandering of public money on courtesans and lavish feasts. Indeed, the King’s popularity was at its lowest ebb since he had been restored to his throne six years earlier, and Will’s ability to organise spectacularly decadent revels played no small part in this.

Back in January, some Londoners had capitalised on the ill-feeling generated by the moral bankruptcy of courtiers like Will, and had engineered an uprising. Their efforts had come to nothing in the end, but the King stubbornly refused to heed the lesson and rein his favourites in, so resentment continued to fester. The plague had not helped. It had killed the poor in their tens of thousands while the King’s response had been to show a clean pair of heels, fetching up in Oxford, where he had continued to frolic as though nothing was wrong. He had come home when the danger was over, but London grieved for its dead, and his merry excesses at White Hall rubbed salt into an open wound.

Chiffinch sat in his sumptuous palace apartments and mulled the problem over. The people were nearing the end of their tether, and the last time a king had made himself this unpopular, he had been executed. Chiffinch was a loyal servant of the Crown, and was not about to stand by and do nothing while a second Charles went about losing his head.

He sighed. Unfortunately, Will and his silly friends – the most flamboyant of whom called themselves the Cockpit Club – were not the only reason why the King was despised by his subjects. His leading ministers did nothing to ease the situation either. They declared war on the Dutch, introduced oppressive taxes, and devised laws to suppress religious freedom. And as for the Earl of Clarendon, his sale of Dunkirk to the French at a ridiculously low price had given rise to the popular belief that he had allowed himself to be bribed. Now the man could not step outside his house without someone howling abuse at him.

Then there was the Duchess of Newcastle, who shocked and unsettled Londoners with her unorthodox behaviour. Her very presence in their city was a source of dissent – some relished her odd ideas, while others found them horrifying. Not only did she hold controversial political and religious opinions, but she questioned the natural order of things. For example, she itched to join the Royal Society, despite the fact that membership was restricted to men, and she wrote books under her own name, instead of having the decorum to use a male pseudonym.

Her antics went against all that was decent, and Chiffinch was terrified of what might happen if she remained unchecked. What if other women followed her example, and brayed their opinions to all and sundry? What if she demanded a seat on the Privy Council, on the grounds that she was more intelligent than the current male incumbents? She was, of course, but that was beside the point. And what if she went to the House of Lords and insisted on having a say? Such eventualities would fly against all that was right, just and proper.

Clearly, something had to be done to save the King from his own Court – from the wild licentiousness of Will and the Cockpit Club, from prim old Clarendon with his penchant for bribes, and from the Duchess with her alarming opinions. Chiffinch frowned. But what?

Then the answer came to him, and his once-handsome face broke into a broad grin. He would save his country from anarchy yet! There would be bad feeling and dismay, but it would only be temporary, and the King would thank him for it eventually, while the general populace would rejoice to see their grievances addressed. Still smiling, Chiffinch began to write a letter.

Piccadilly, London, Friday 6 April 1666

‘Mr Chiffinch cannot be dead, sir,’ said Thomas Chaloner, struggling for patience. He disliked the way Court gossip spread like wildfire, growing more ridiculous with every whispered telling. ‘I saw him walking around not two hours ago.’

‘It was very sudden, apparently,’ replied the Earl of Clarendon, a short, fat, fussy man who wore a great yellow wig and shoes with uncomfortable block-heels to make himself taller. ‘But I assure you, he is no longer in the world of the living.’

He tried to hide his pleasure in the news, although it was plain for all to see. Chaloner did not blame him: Chiffinch hated the Earl, and who would not be relieved to learn that an implacable enemy was no longer in a position to plot against him?

‘Everyone thought it was the plague at first,’ the Earl went on. ‘But then Timothy Clarke arrived and said that Chiffinch died of an abscess – he called it an impostume – in the breast.’

Chaloner raised his eyebrows. Clarke was Physician to the Household, so perhaps the tale was true – a medic would know what he was talking about. Or would he? Some of Clarke’s colleagues had been rather scathing about his professional abilities in the past. Moreover, if Chiffinch had been suffering from something serious enough to kill him, would he really have been sauntering about a short time before?

The Earl saw Chaloner’s bemused expression and misread it. ‘Perhaps you are thinking of the wrong Chiffinch. The one who died today is the older of the two brothers: Thomas, Keeper of the Closet and Keeper of the Jewels.’

‘I know,’ said Chaloner shortly. True, he was not as familiar with White Hall as he might have been, because the Earl kept sending him away on missions and errands, but he was not entirely uninformed. He certainly knew the people who meant his employer harm. His official title was Gentleman Usher, but his real remit was to protect the Earl from men such as Chiffinch and others like him.

‘As opposed to Will Chiffinch, the Pimp-Master General,’ the Earl went on, sniggering as he used the title conferred on the younger brother by a contemptuous general public.

‘Yes, sir,’ said Chaloner, wondering if the Earl would be quite so amused if he knew that, far from being mortified, Will considered the title a great compliment and revelled in it.

‘The matter will have to be investigated, of course,’ the Earl went on. ‘We must ascertain that it really was an impostume that carried Chiffinch off. He was not very popular, you know.’

Chaloner reviewed his own impressions of the man – a stiff, humourless, proud individual with a firm belief in his own rectitude. Unusually for a King’s favourite, Chiffinch was reasonably ethical and genuinely cultured. He was also a devoted Royalist, and had recently expressed concern over the fact that the King was not as well liked as he had been when he had first been restored to his throne.

‘Investigated by whom?’ he asked, then saw the calculating gleam in his employer’s eyes and raised a warning hand. ‘It cannot be me, sir. His family will object to any attempt by us to meddle in their affairs, and you may open yourself up to harm if you—’

‘I am Lord Chancellor of England,’ interrupted the Earl haughtily. ‘I have the authority to appoint whomsoever I please to explore a case of foul play among the King’s friends.’

‘There is nothing to suggest foul play, sir,’ objected Chaloner, loath to dabble in such murky waters. And not just for himself – if Chiffinch had been murdered, it was sheer madness for his sworn enemy to appoint the investigator. ‘A physician has deemed the death natural—’

‘But you just told me that Chiffinch was walking around two hours ago,’ countered the Earl. ‘You wonder how a man can be alive one minute and dead the next. I can see it in your face.’

Chaloner was suspicious, but that was beside the point. ‘Then I will tell Clarke to look at the body again in order to—’

‘No, you will arrange for a second opinion,’ interrupted the Earl firmly. ‘Ask Surgeon Wiseman to examine the corpse at his earliest convenience.’

It was a good idea. Wiseman was not only Chaloner’s friend, but a man who could be trusted to find the truth. He would almost certainly provide a more credible explanation than the one Clarke had offered – an apoplexy or a seizure, perhaps, which might well have carried the victim off in a flash.

‘Until Wiseman has given his verdict,’ the Earl went on, ‘you can determine what happened between the time you saw Chiffinch alive, and the time he dropped dead from “natural causes”.’

The way he sneered the last two words made it perfectly clear that he expected the surgeon to declare Chiffinch’s end suspicious. Chaloner opened his mouth to repeat that it was not a good idea to interfere, but the Earl overrode him.

‘Of course, you will have to hurry if we are to have answers before Chiffinch is laid to rest. He will be buried in Westminster Abbey on Tuesday, just four days hence.’

Chaloner blinked his astonishment. ‘Arrangements have been made already? That is fast!’

‘Very fast,’ agreed the Earl. ‘Indeed, one might say suspiciously fast.’ Then he relented. ‘Of course, it may be because the dean is away, so cannot object to such a vile creature being laid to rest in his domain. The family aims to present him with a fait accompli.’

Chaloner remained astounded. ‘All this has already been decided, even though Chiffinch was alive two hours ago?’

‘It has, so when you compile your list of murder suspects, make sure you put the family at the top. It would suit me very well if you prove that one of them killed him.’

Chaloner was sure it would, as discrediting the Chiffinches would deal a hefty blow to those who had united against him. Of course, he would not have nearly so many detractors if he refrained from scolding the King and his followers like errant schoolboys. Chaloner tried one last time to dissuade the Earl from a course of action that might prove disastrous.

‘Even if Chiffinch did die at the hand of another – which I cannot believe he did – it is a mistake for you to get involved. It is better to stay aloof from the entire affair.’

‘I disagree. It will show those who hold me in low esteem that I am cognisant of their welfare – that I am an ethical Lord Chancellor, who wants justice for all, even the fools and worthless debauchees who mean me harm. However, you do not have long to discover the truth: Royal Oak sails on Easter Sunday, and I want you on her when she goes.’

Since entering the Earl’s employ, Chaloner had spent more time away than at home. Indeed, he had only returned from Scotland the previous day – the Earl was a great supporter of the northern bishops, and had sent Chaloner to spy on the Presbyterians who were making life difficult for them. These missions were frustrating, exhausting and prevented him from putting down roots, so he was beginning to resent them. And yet, he thought wryly, the ocean would be a good place to be if he did stir up a hornets’ nest by prying into Chiffinch’s death.

‘What do you want me to do on Royal Oak, sir?’ he asked curiously.

‘Find the sailor who stole a lot of saltpetre while she was moored at Tower Wharf last month. The navy is short of funds, and cannot afford to lose its supplies to light-fingered tars.’

‘No,’ said Chaloner, although as the navy had decided not to pay its seamen’s wages, he did not blame them for finding other ways to feed their families. ‘But saltpetre is used to make gunpowder. Surely it is more important to find the buyer than the thieves?’

‘Williamson is doing that as we speak – the trail has taken him to Dover. However Royal Oak’s crew is currently on leave, which means he cannot question them about the thieves. Ergo, you will sail on her at Easter and do it.’

He referred to Joseph Williamson, the Spymaster General, who was responsible for matters pertaining to national security. Chaloner neither liked nor trusted Williamson, and was pleased to learn he was seventy miles away, thus eliminating the possibility of a chance encounter in London.

‘There will be another great sea-battle when our fleet meets the Dutch,’ mused the Earl, when Chaloner made no reply. ‘The intelligence you gathered in the United Provinces last year told us that they have built newer, heavier ships, so let us hope you are not blown to pieces while you are gone.’

He did not mean it. Despite Chaloner proving his loyalty on any number of occasions, the Earl was unable to forget that he had not only fought on the ‘wrong’ side during the civil wars, but had been one of Cromwell’s spies into the bargain. Not for the first time, Chaloner wished he could leave the Earl to his enemies, but it was not easy for former Parliamentarian intelligencers to find employment, and he knew he was lucky to have a job at all. He had no choice but to do what the Earl ordered, no matter how asinine, pointless or dangerous.

As Lord Chancellor, the Earl had been allocated a suite of rooms in the Palace of White Hall, but because he suffered from gout and was often immobile, he had taken to working from his home, Clarendon House, instead. This was a glorious new mansion on the semi-rural lane called Piccadilly, although his staff were currently unimpressed with the place, as a sharp downpour the previous morning had flooded the library. His entire household – other than Chaloner – had spent the last twenty-four hours struggling to contain the damage.

Still feeling that probing Chiffinch’s death was a mistake, Chaloner left Clarendon House and walked towards White Hall, where the hapless courtier had breathed his last. It was a beautiful day, and warm for the time of year. The hedges along the side of the road were white and pink with blossom, while the scent of new growth was in the air. He inhaled deeply, savouring the heady aroma of fresh leaves. The air did not stay sweet for long though, as a sudden breeze brought a whiff from the city – the stench of ten thousand coal fires, the stink of the laystalls, and the distinctive tang of its tanneries, mills, slaughterhouses and foundries.

Despite London’s drawbacks, Chaloner was glad to be back, especially now the plague was in abeyance. Only twenty-six fever deaths had been noted in the previous week’s Mortality Bill, compared to seven thousand when it was at its peak. He had lived through some of it in January, when he had investigated a plot centred around Covent Garden, although the Earl had dispatched him to Scotland the moment that matter was resolved.

On his way south again, Chaloner had planned to spend a few days with his family in Buckinghamshire, but an urgent message from the Earl begged him to ride to London with all possible speed. He had made the journey in record time, cognisant of the fact that his employer was never far from disaster. He had arrived the previous afternoon, saddle-sore and anxious, only to learn that there was no emergency, and the Earl could not even recall why the summons had been sent.

Chaloner resented not seeing the family he loved. His clan was a large one, even by the standards of the day. His grandfather had married twice, siring eleven children with his first wife and seven with the second. Most of these aunts and uncles had produced prodigious broods of their own, which meant Chaloner had enough kinsmen to populate a small village. The wars had scattered them, so there were some cousins he had never met, but he was fond of the ones he knew, while his siblings meant the world to him.

He had been blessed with an idyllic childhood, and all his memories were happy right up to the day when one uncle – another Thomas Chaloner – had dragged him off to join Cromwell’s New Model Army. Nothing had been the same since, and he felt as though he had spent his entire adult existence leaping from one precarious situation to another, in constant danger and with nowhere to call home. Even his two marriages – both brought to untimely ends by plague – had been unsatisfactory, and at thirty-six years of age, he felt weary and jaded. His brothers and sisters were a much-needed rock in the unsteady, shifting sea of his life.

But dwelling on the matter was doing no good, so he turned his mind to the task the Earl had set him. He began by reviewing what he knew about the dead man, which was not much. Chiffinch was a favourite of the King, and one of his duties had been to buy art for the royal palaces. This he had done extremely well, showing himself to be a man of taste and refinement.

Chaloner thought about his own encounter with Chiffinch earlier that morning. He been strolling down King Street, aiming to break his fast in the Sun tavern in Westminster, when Chiffinch had scuttled out through White Hall’s main gate. It had been just as the abbey bells chimed six o’clock. Although Chiffinch disliked the Earl and his household, good manners had compelled him to stop and exchange polite greetings with Chaloner. Then he had shared a bit of gossip about the Duchess of Newcastle, who had evidently gone to the theatre wearing an inappropriate costume. The plump Chiffinch had been flushed and a little breathless, so it was entirely possible that unaccustomed exertion had given him a fatal seizure.

Chaloner would have to find out why Chiffinch had been up at such an hour – whether he had risen early or had not yet been to bed. He suspected it would be the latter: Chiffinch did not indulge in the same wild revelries as his despicable brother, but no successful or ambitious courtier slept while his King was awake and might dispense lucrative favours.

He walked on, enjoying the spirited bustle of the city, although it was still nowhere near as lively as it had been before the plague. Even so, most of the weeds that had grown up between the cobbles around Charing Cross had been trampled away by the returning wheels, feet and hoofs, and although some houses remained boarded up, most showed signs of being inhabited again.

Yet the city was not the cheerful place it had been eighteen months ago. No one had forgotten the fact that the King and his favourites had fled to safety, leaving London to fend for itself, and folk were less willing to overlook their profligate ways now the Court was back. Indeed, most were of the opinion that they were better off without His Majesty and his cronies, especially as there was great resentment over the draconian new taxes levied to fund the royal household.

Moreover, the year was 1666, and it had escaped no one’s notice that the combination of three sixes was inauspicious. Soothsayers were predicting a calamity that would make the plague pale by comparison. Worse yet, Good Friday – the day of Jesus’s crucifixion – would fall on Friday the thirteenth, a detail that had sent the gloom-merchants into a frenzy. How could something terrible not befall London on such an unlucky date?

As he walked, Chaloner heard people talking about it in low, worried voices. Personally, he thought the chances were that Good Friday would pass without incident. Of course, then the city would be full of anticlimax and disappointment, which would bring its own problems.

‘I saw it myself last Sunday,’ breathed a laundress. ‘A cloud, shaped like Satan himself, hovering over Clerkenwell. His forked tail was perfectly clear.’

‘Clerkenwell,’ whispered her companion darkly. ‘There are tales about Clerkenwell. Courtiers have mansions there, so of course it will be full of wickedness.’

‘And do not forget that the new cemetery is nearby,’ the laundress went on. ‘The Church has agreed not to consecrate it, so that Quakers and other dubious sects can use it to bury their dead. If you ask me, that is a sure way to attract demons and other denizens of hell.’

‘Then they will make their presence known on Good Friday,’ predicted the friend, pursing her lips. ‘And God help us all.’

The Palace of White Hall was vast, boasting more than two thousand rooms. It straggled between the River Thames and St James’s Park, with King Street running through the middle of it. The word ‘palace’ was a misnomer, as there was no main house, and it comprised a random collection of buildings that had been raised as and when they had been needed, resulting in a peculiar mismatch of styles and sizes. A maze of alleys with unexpected dead-ends, dog-leg turns and crooked yards connected them all, and it had taken Chaloner weeks to learn his way around properly.

The only part that was truly grand was the Banqueting House, a handsome edifice designed by Inigo Jones with a ceiling by Rubens. The rest comprised apartments for the King, his Queen and various princes, nobles and bureaucrats, along with government and Treasury offices, accommodation for servants and retainers, a chapel, and an array of kitchens, laundries, storerooms and stables. Most of these lay to the east of King Street, while to the west were the tennis courts and the cockpit.

Once through the Great Gate, Chaloner paused to look around. He was in a vast cobbled yard, with the Banqueting House on one side and ranges of offices on the others. There was a large fountain in the middle, working for the first time in months. Some wag had been at the statue of Eros in its centre, which now wore a yellow wig, block-heeled shoes and a Lord Chancellor’s gown. Servants stood around it, laughing.

Chaloner’s first task was to find Surgeon Wiseman and ask him to examine Chiffinch’s body. After all, there would be no need to launch a murder inquiry if the courtier had died of natural causes. Unfortunately, he learned that the Queen was ill, and Wiseman had vowed not to leave her side until he had seen some improvement. Chaloner scribbled a note, begging his help for an hour, and paid a page to deliver it. Moments later, the page returned with Wiseman’s reply. It was not polite, and accused Chaloner of being callous for putting the needs of the dead above the those of the living. It ended with the curt suggestion that he ask again tomorrow.

With an irritable sigh, Chaloner supposed he would have to start asking questions without the surgeon’s verdict, and was just deciding where to begin when he heard someone call his name from the shadows. It was a man who would have been invisible but for his bright white falling band – the square of cloth that covered his chest like a bib; otherwise, he was dressed entirely in black, a colour that suited his sinister demeanour. His name was John Swaddell, and he was one of the deadliest, most disturbing people Chaloner had ever met.

Swaddell worked for Spymaster Williamson, officially as a clerk, although it was common knowledge that he was really an assassin. He was frighteningly good at his work, and Chaloner was always unnerved by the ruthless efficiency with which he dispatched those deemed to be enemies of the state.

He had performed a peculiar blood-mingling ritual the first time he and Chaloner had been ordered to work together, which he claimed had forged an unbreakable bond between them. Chaloner was uncomfortable associating with such a lethal individual, but allies were rare at Court, and not to be lightly dismissed. So, although Swaddell was not a friend, he was at least on Chaloner’s side.

‘You are back,’ said Swaddell, with a grin that was meant to be friendly but that Chaloner thought was unsettling. ‘Did you find your annoying Presbyterians? And neutralise them?’

‘I warned them about the dangers of fomenting unrest and advised negotiation instead,’ replied Chaloner, to make the point that he was not in the habit of dispensing his own brand of justice. ‘What are you doing here? Something for Williamson?’

‘He is in Dover, investigating the theft of some saltpetre from Royal Oak. My remit is to lurk in the city and report anything untoward. But it is dull work, and I miss his company.’

‘You do?’ blurted Chaloner, astonished that anyone should say such a thing about Williamson, who was sly, secretive and unlikeable. Then he supposed that Swaddell was much of an ilk, so the pair would have a lot in common.

Swaddell smiled again, revealing small, pointed teeth and a very red tongue. ‘I shall miss him less now that you are home. We must adjourn to a coffee house, so you can tell me about your adventures in more detail.’

‘Later,’ promised Chaloner, planning to avoid it. ‘I have work to do first.’

‘I suppose your Earl wants you to look into what happened to Chiffinch,’ surmised Swaddell. ‘I confess I was astonished to learn he was dead. He seemed hale enough yesterday.’

‘Have you heard any rumours or whispers about him?’

Swaddell grimaced. ‘People tend to stop talking once they see me listening to their conversations. However, I can tell you that he spent most of last night in the Shield Gallery.’

Chaloner was grateful for the information, as it told him where to start his enquiries. ‘Were you there, too?’

A bitter expression suffused Swaddell’s face. ‘Unlike you, I am no gentleman usher – I was not allowed in. But I know Chiffinch was there, because I overheard his brother Will tell one of their friends as much. Unfortunately, that is all I heard him say, because he spotted me in the shadows and moved away.’

‘Pity,’ said Chaloner, although he would have done likewise if he had seen an assassin eavesdropping on him, even if the conversation had been entirely innocent.

‘However, I do know that Will requested an audience with the King within minutes of learning about his brother’s death,’ Swaddell went on. ‘Apparently, Will accepted the royal condolences, then asked if he might inherit all Chiffinch’s titles and duties. The King agreed and invested him on the spot.’

‘That is interesting,’ mused Chaloner, wondering if the Earl was right to suspect foul play among the dead man’s kin after all.

‘Not really,’ sighed Swaddell. ‘Will could have waited a decent interval, but then he would have lost out, because someone else would have rushed to the King and begged to be Chiffinch’s successor. White Hall is for the bold and greedy, not the respectfully reticent.’

‘How has London been these last few weeks?’ asked Chaloner, moving to another subject, as it was one on which he trusted Swaddell’s opinion more than anyone else’s. ‘When I was last home, we only just managed to stop malcontents from blowing half of it up.’

Swaddell lowered his voice. ‘I thought the King and his friends might have moderated their revels, given that their bad behaviour was what precipitated that crisis in the first place, but if anything, they are worse. Have you heard of the Cockpit Club?’

Chaloner shook his head. ‘What is it?’

‘A gaggle of idle, wildly hedonistic courtiers who have declared themselves bored with life at White Hall and who have elected to pursue more “interesting” forms of entertainment, most of which are distasteful and some of which are illegal. Their sole remit is to have fun, and they care nothing for anyone or anything else.’

‘Then perhaps someone should tell the King to curb their excesses before they provoke yet another attempt to remove him from power.’

‘Your Earl tried, but he refused to listen. Apparently, His Majesty feels that doing what his subjects ask will encourage them to make more demands of him in the future.’

Then he was a fool, thought Chaloner, and if he followed his father to the executioner’s block, he had no one to blame but himself. All he hoped was that good men would not die trying to quell the trouble that his arrogance and stupidity might spark. But these were private thoughts, and not ones to be shared with a man in the pay of the Spymaster General.

‘Unfortunately,’ Swaddell went on, ‘when they heard what Clarendon had done, the Cockpit Club declared all-out war on him.’

Chaloner groaned: the Earl had enough enemies already, and did not need more. ‘Who is in this society?’ he asked, supposing he would have to monitor them as well as all the others.

Swaddell recited thirty or so names, which included the Court’s most dissipated rakes. Some were heirs to titles and fortunes, kicking their heels while they waited for their sires to die. Others were penniless aristocrats bent on securing sinecures. Their de facto leader was one Colonel Widdrington, whose family had somehow contrived to hang on to its money during the civil wars and the upheavals that had followed. Widdrington and his wife Bess oozed wealth, superiority and entitlement. Chaloner had always found them unpleasant.

‘So these men see my Earl as their enemy,’ he sighed, when Swaddell had finished.

‘Not just him but his entire household, so take extra care while you are here. I doubt they will risk a physical encounter with you, but they are vengeful, vindictive and petty. And selfish, given that they consider their pleasures more important than the King’s standing with his people. They are not good friends to him, no matter what he thinks.’

Chaloner nodded his thanks to Swaddell and went on his way, glad to step out of the shadows and into the bright morning sunshine.

The day had turned hot, with the sun blazing down from a clear blue sky. Usually, fai