Doctor Who_ The Roundheads - Mark Gatiss [50]
He rose and paced the room, hands behind his back. ‘I’m sorry to have sent you out on a fool’s errand, Chris. I thought we might be on to something.’
Whyte’s eyes flicked open and he flashed Copper his most charming smile. ‘Ah, but we might be.’
Copper stopped and turned. ‘What do you mean?’
Whyte took Frances’s note from his tunic and laid it down on the table. ‘Do we know a... Thomas Culpeper?’
Copper shook his head. ‘Should we?’
‘He’s only one of Cromwell’s lieutenants,’ said Whyte.
Copper nodded. ‘The name is familiar now you say it. One of Henry Ireton’s cronies, is he not?’ Whyte shrugged. ‘Well, what of him?’ asked Copper, puzzled.
Whyte stretched out his legs and dug his hands into the pockets of his breeches. ‘Our friend Mistress Polly may or may not be all innocence, but her friend, the landlord’s daughter, is engaged in an... affaire du coeur with said Master Culpeper. What do you think about that?’
Copper sank down into a chair and swallowed, his eyes blazing with excitement. ‘Go on.’
‘Well,’ said Whyte, relaxing into his story. ‘Young Frances Kemp left a note for her dearest, asking if he has heard anything about the whereabouts of Polly’s friends. He’s obviously close to the general. I wonder if we can’t make use of it.’
Copper nodded eagerly. ‘I think we can. Where are they now? The women I mean?’
Whyte pointed to the floor. ‘They’re here. I think Mistress Polly intends to rest her bones in the tavern for the night.’
Copper rubbed his chin. ‘I must consider this news, Chris.
The link with the boy Culpeper could prove decisive. You must bring Frances to me later. She must be made to understand her duty to the King.’
Whyte nodded slowly. ‘And we still go ahead as planned?’
‘Of course,’ said Copper. ‘Our first priority must be to free His Majesty. All other considerations are secondary.’
Whyte dragged his feet from the table and stood up. ‘Very well. I’ll bring the girl once the household is asleep. What about Polly?’
Copper smiled. ‘Well, you did say something about a bed for the night...’
Whyte smiled and turned on his heel.
Thurloe entered Cromwell’s apartments to find the general still awake, poring over a letter. His eyes were moist with tears and a strange grin was fixed on his flushed face.
Remaining in the doorway, his cloak swaying in the breeze from the open window, Thurloe reflected on the strange contradictions of the great man to whom he was so loyal. It was extraordinary but one who invoked such awe and fear, one so determined – and single-minded, could yet be reduced to weeping by the slightest act of tenderness. Thurloe had seen the general with tears rolling down his cheeks as he listened, utterly transported, to some passage of sweet music. And he had wept when he had witnessed the King’s reunion with his royal children, moved beyond words by the King’s emotion.
Perhaps it was his own losses that made him so tender-hearted in that direction.
Cromwell looked up and beckoned to him, wiping the tears from his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘John. Here a moment.’
He thrust the letter under Thurloe’s nose. ‘It’s from my daughter, Bridget.’
Thurloe nodded, not a bit surprised. ‘All’s well, I trust?’
Cromwell nodded and smiled. ‘Oh, yes, yes. And that husband of hers is giving no trouble. Not that Bridget would ever let him, eh?’
He chortled merrily and ThurJoe smiled back. ‘You desired to see me, General?’
‘Mmm,’ said Cromwell, placing his arm on Thurloe’s shoulder. ‘Please sit down.’
Thurloe did so in a high-backed, uncomfortable chair.
Cromwell took his accustomed seat, adjusting the cushions to take account of his bothersome boil, and sat forward, holding his hands together as though in prayer.
‘John, I am most vexed by what Sir Thomas Fairfax has said.’
‘Vexed?’
‘Aye,’ said Cromwell with a frown. ‘And he is not alone in saying that we can’t walk about cutting off our monarch’s head.’
Thurloe sighed. ‘With respect to Sir Thomas, General, the King has not yet stood trial.’
‘Oh, fie, John!’ cried Cromwell. ‘The