London - Edward Rutherfurd [390]
But Meredith was only smiling, blandly.
“The Prayer Book, Mr Meredith,” he began. “As head of the vestry I must insist . . .” He was interrupted by the church door opening. Gideon Carpenter, in the dress of an officer, a sword at his side, stepped calmly through it, followed by six armed men. Julius gaped, opening his mouth to rebuke them too, but was pre-empted by Gideon. “You are no longer on the vestry committee, Sir Julius.”
“No longer . . .?” What did the man mean? And why on earth had Gideon addressed him in such a way? “Sir Julius?”
“You did not know? I am sorry. Your brother is dead. You are Sir Julius Ducket now.”
“Dead?” Julius just looked at him, taking it in, unable for a moment to speak.
“There is something more, Sir Julius.” It was said quietly, without malice. “You are under arrest.”
1649
January the 29th. Evening. It had been dark since five in the afternoon. Ahead, a long, star-chilled night, whose cold and silent hours would be a solemn vigil for many. In the grey, blank light of morning, in Whitehall, they would do such a thing as was never done in England before.
Edmund Meredith sat alone. His wife and children were upstairs but not yet abed. On the table nearby lay a stiff black hat with a tall crown and a wide, circular brim. He was still wearing his day clothes – a black, sleeveless jerkin, tightly buttoned down the front from his adam’s apple to below his waist; a black and white striped shirt with large, white linen collar and cuffs; black breeches, woollen socks, plain shoes. His silvery hair was cut so that it hung along the lines of his jawbone. This deliberately clumsy and unattractive arrangement was now the fashion amongst the Puritans and he had adopted it unhesitatingly three years before.
He sat in a heavy chair with a padded back, his long fingers pressed together in front of his aristocratic face, his eyes half closed, as though at prayer. But Edmund was not praying; he was thinking. About survival.
He was good at surviving. Though in his late seventies now, he looked twenty years younger. Of his five children living, the youngest was only six, and it seemed Edmund meant to live long enough to see even this boy into adulthood. As for the art of political survival . . .
“It’s all,” he once explained to Jane, “in the timing.” And as he looked back over the last seven years of conflict, he could certainly claim that his own had been good.
He liked talking to Jane. They had known each other too long to have any delusions or secrets. He enjoyed her gentle teasing and she was the only person in the world with whom he dared to be entirely frank.
The most important step had been the first, back in 1642, when he had so shocked poor Julius by switching to the Presbyterian camp. King Charles had still been advancing on London then; many had expected a quick royal victory. “So how did you know,” Jane had asked, “which way to jump?”
“I’d looked at the city militia,” he had said. “I didn’t think Charles would get through that year.”
“But what about the long run?” she had challenged. “The king might have defeated Parliament. Then you’d have been out on your ear.”
“True,” he agreed. “But in the long run I was even more certain Parliament would win.”
“Why so?”
“Supply,” he had said simply. “The Roundheads had the navy and almost all the ports. Hard for Charles to get reinforcements. Moreover, the ports gave Parliament the customs dues. Above all, the Roundheads had London.” He spread his hands. “Long wars take money. London’s where the money is.” He grinned. “I bet two-to-one on the Roundheads and became a Presbyterian.”
And how quickly he had been proved right. Only months later Parliament, dropping all pretence of royal authority, had abolished bishops and done a deal with the Scots: by a Solemn