15

I waited until the morning was well advanced, spending my time observing the house unseen to see how many people there were and what might be my best means of escape should that be necessary. Then, my heart thudding in my chest, I prepared myself, walked up to the door and knocked. It was pleasantly warm in the hallway, which was surprisingly far from opulent. I knew, of course, that Thurloe had made himself as rich as Croesus during his years of power as Cromwell’s henchman and was disconcerted to see him in such modest accommodation. I only saw one servant in all the time I was there, and although the house was comfortable, it was not of the size and splendor I expected. But I assumed that this was another example of the arrogant humility of the Puritans, who make such a show of their piety and disdain for worldly possessions. Personally, I always detested them for that, grabbing with one hand and praying with the other. It is the duty of men of rank to live in a suitable state, even if they have no inclination.

The servant, an old fellow who blinked like an owl brought suddenly into the light, told me that his master was busy at his books, and that I should wait in the main parlor. Mr. Thurloe would be glad of a visitor to divert him, he said. Not this one, I thought to myself as I followed his instructions and walked in the commodious, warm room at the eastern end of the house. Not this one.

He came in a few minutes later, a gaunt man with long, thin hair around a high-domed forehead. His skin was pale, almost translucent and, apart from heavy lines around his eyes, he seemed younger than I knew he must be. Now I knew what had transpired, and how he had manipulated men, good and bad, to his will, I was half minded simply to run him through then and there, without wasting further time. He’d find out who his assailant was soon enough, I thought, when the flames began to lick around his soul.

I was determined, but felt my resolution ebb with every step he took toward me. For months now, lying awake at night, I had imagined myself whipping out my father’s sword and thrusting it into his heart, intoning some suitable words as he expired with a look of cowardly terror on his face, crying for mercy, slobbering with fear, while I stood implacable over him. I had no sword, but Grove’s knife would do as well.

Easy to imagine, harder to accomplish. Killing a man in battle when the blood is hot is one thing; dispatching one in a peaceful parlor, with the fire crackling comfortably in the grate and the smell of burning apple logs in the air, is quite another. Doubt assailed me for the first time—Would killing a man unable to defend himself not suddenly lower me to his level? Would not my great act be demeaned if it was performed in an unseemly manner?

I suspect I would not be so bothered now, although as it is unlikely that I will ever be in such a situation again (the Lord having smiled on me) it is easy to say and difficult to prove. Perhaps, indeed, it was my doubt and my hesitation which earned me that divine forbearance.

“Good morning, sir, you are welcome,” he said quietly, examining me curiously all the while. “I see you are cold; pray let me get you some refreshment.”

I wanted to spit at him, and say I would not drink with a man like him. But the words stuck in my throat, and in my weakness and confusion I stood there mute while he clapped his hands and asked the servant to bring some ale.

“Do sit, sir,” he said, after another long silence when he had again examined me carefully, for I had, with my normal politeness, jumped up to bow to him when he entered. “And please be careful you do not impale yourself on your dagger.”

All this he said with a wry smile, and I blushed and stammered like a schoolchild caught throwing things in class.

“What is your name? I believe I know your face, although I see so few people now that I trick myself into recognizing total strangers.” He had a soft, gentle and educated voice, quite unlike anything I had expected.

“You do not know me. My name is Prestcott.”

“Ah. And you have come to kill me, is that right?”

“It is,” I said stiffly, feeling more and more confused.

There was another long pause, as Thurloe sat, marked the page in his book, closed it and laid it neatly on the table. Then he placed his hands in his lap and looked at me once more.

“Well? Go ahead. I would hate to detain you unnecessarily.”

“Don’t you want to know why?”

He seemed almost puzzled at the question, and shook his head. “Only if you wish to tell me. As far as I am concerned, compared with meeting the Lord and His standing in judgment of me, of what importance is the why or the wherefore of men? Do take some ale,” he added, pouring out a glass from the broad earthenware pot the servant had brought.

I shrugged the glass aside. “It’s very important,” I said petulantly, realizing as I spoke that I was drifting further and further away from my imagined behavior.

“In that case I am listening,” he said. “Although 1 cannot understand what injury I may have done you. You are surely too young to be my enemy?”

“You killed my father.”

He looked worried at the statement. “Did I? I don’t recall it.”

At last he was talking in a way which angered me, which I knew was necessary if I was going to accomplish my aim.

“You damnable liar. Of course you do. Sir James Prestcott, my father.”

“Oh,” he said quietly. “Yes. Of course I remember him. But I thought you must have meant someone else—I never harmed your father. I tried to at one stage, of course; he was one of the handful of the king’s servants who was not a fool.”

“That was why you destroyed him. You couldn’t catch him, or do battle with him, so you poisoned men’s minds against him with lies and clawed him down that way.”

“You hold me responsible?”

“You were.”

“Very well, then. If you say so,” he said calmly, and lapsed into silence.

Again he had wrong-footed me. I don’t know what I expected—either a vehement denial or an outrageous justification of his deeds. I certainly did not anticipate him not seeming to care one way or the other.

“Defend yourself,” I said hotly.

“With what? I do not have your knife or your strength, so if you want to kill me, you will not find it a difficult task.”

“I mean defend what you did.”

“Why? You have already decided that I am guilty, so I fear that my feeble replies will not sway you.”

“That’s not fair,” I cried, realizing as I spoke that this was the sort of childish remark a man like my father would never have made.

“Few things are,” he said.

“My father was no traitor,” I said.

“That may be the case.”

“Are you saying you didn’t destroy him? You expect me to believe that?”

“I haven’t said anything. But since you ask, no. I did not. Of course, I have little influence over whether you believe me.”

Later in life—too late to be of use to me then—I understood how John Thurloe had risen to such an eminence that he was the one person in the land who dared contradict Cromwell. You punched, Thurloe rose up again, sweetly reasonable and soft-voiced. You kept on punching, he kept on getting up, always gentle and never losing his temper, until you felt ashamed of yourself and listened to him instead. Then, when you were off balance, he simply persuaded you around to his point of view. He never thrust himself forward, never forced his opinions on you but, sooner or later, the anger and opposition exhausted themselves by dashing against his persistence.

“You did it to others, and you expect me to believe that you didn’t to my father?”

“Which others?”

“You didn’t say he was innocent. You had the chance.”

“It was not my job to ensure that my enemies were strong and unified. Besides, who would have believed me? Do you think a certificate of honesty from me would have cleared his reputation? If the king’s party wished to tear into themselves and chase ghosts, what was that to me? The weaker they were, the better.”