Sarum - Edward Rutherfurd [502]
“I found the old iron bands up there still in good working order,” he told Shockley. “Those ancient masons knew what they were about. I only hope we do our work so well.”
There were two reasons for his visit to the bishop that morning. One was usual: the other concerned young Forest. He entered the bishop’s palace.
“Ah, Samuel, dear friend.” Seth Ward – his big broad face, heavy-lidded, clever eyes, big hooked nose. He was sunk in a chair; he was in one of his moods. “I fear I am unwell.”
Fellow of the Royal Society, friend of Wren, Pepys, Newton, fine administrator, brilliant mind, when not worried into fits by the dean, scholar, who had built up at Salisbury one of the finest medical and scientific libraries in the country – and raging hypochondriac.
“There is only one thing worse than your imagined illnesses,” Shockley told him cheerfully, “and that is your invented cures.” For Ward would even invent potions when he had been through all those the doctors could dream up. “I suppose you’ve been consulting that rogue Tuberville again.”
He did not linger long over Ward’s health, but came straight to the point.
“I need your help with young Forest.” And he outlined the disgraceful case, and his own plan for solving it. Ward laughed.
“I feel better. I will support you.”
“Thank you. Then I must be gone.”
As he left, Ward held him back for a moment.
“Prince William will be here shortly. You think this revolution is for the best?”
“Undoubtedly.” He smiled. “But then you know, unlike you, I am a Whig.”
In his opinion, the Stuarts had finally destroyed themselves.
For when, after Cromwell had died, the English Parliament had finally invited Charles II to return to his kingdom, it was with a clear understanding.
The English had killed a king: tried a Commonwealth, and not liked it. Now the gentry in Parliament had decided to return to normal.
Which meant their rule – gentry in the shire, gentry as justices, lords lieutenant; local men, in charge of local militia, not paid armies; gentry administering old English common law, gentry supporting the Church of England; and gentry in Parliament in control of taxes. It was conservative; it was not what the Presbyterians and Radicals had fought a civil war for; but it was at least familiar and certainly no military tyranny. It was safe. The Clarendon Code and the Test Act that the gentry passed through Parliament barred all except Church of England men from public office: that kept out dangerous Radicals and, above all, papists. There was also to be no foreign interference. That was the understanding. Shockley, for one, liked it.
But for twenty-five years the obstinate Stuarts had done everything they could to thwart it.
Charles II secretly plotted with his cousin Louis XIV of France to invade, and declared himself a papist on his death-bed.
His brother James was even worse: he did not even trouble to hide his intentions.
“He’ll turn us Catholic and use French or Irish armies to do it,” Shockley told Seth Ward. “That’s why I’m a Whig.”
For the programme of the new party who had been given this curious name, was to exclude Catholic James from the succession. The king and his court Tories had fought back.
They had removed from office most of those who opposed them. Good men – Hungerford, Thynne of Longleat, Mompesson, and many more – Deputy Lieutenants and Justices had all been removed. All seven Wiltshire boroughs, including Salisbury, had lost their charters. Charles bribed, bullied and packed every borough and shire to get a parliament to support his brother.
Charles had manipulated and won. James had succeeded peacefully. But not for long.
“And by God, sir,” Shockley now remarked to Ward, “he has given us Whigs our ammunition.