The Last Protector. Andrew Taylor

than a child’s. She had been a sturdy woman in her prime, with a plump, round face and a brisk, bustling air as she went about the tasks of her household. In the seven years since Oliver’s death, she had slowly changed. It was as if time itself was devouring her.

      ‘Sit down, Mr White.’

      There was a low stool beside a chest, the only other furnishing in the closet beside the daybed on which she lay. When he sat down, his knees rose towards his chin. You could hardly see the floor.

      ‘I don’t care for candles,’ she went on. ‘It’s when I see the blood on the walls. Smell it, too, sometimes. Fresh blood, you see.’

      ‘It is the fever, madam, I assure you. There is no blood.’

      She made a low, rattling noise that might have been a laugh. ‘No, sir. There is always blood. There has been too much blood altogether. But enough of that for the moment. Will you do something else for me, as well as act as my executor?’

      He bowed his head. ‘Anything, madam. Anything I can.’

      ‘You and Katherine will not be the losers. There will be something for you when I am gone.’ A hand appeared from the blankets, small and wrinkled as a monkey’s paw. ‘Take this.’

      It was an iron key, three inches long and warm to his touch with heat borrowed from its owner.

      ‘Unlock the chest, sir. You will find a bundle of papers inside, on the top. Have the kindness to give them to me.’

      He obeyed. The papers were tied together with a broad black ribbon. He glimpsed a dark, rich fabric underneath them; the candle flame glinted on the gold thread that brought the sombre material to life. A relic of the Whitehall days, he thought sadly, wondering what else the chest contained, what other mementoes of other places, of other, better times.

      She slipped the ribbon from the papers. ‘Hold the candle higher.’

      She peered at the papers. On one of them he recognized the familiar hand of the old lady’s late husband, the Lord Protector himself, Oliver Cromwell of blessed memory. She paused, stroking the paper as if to give it pleasure and comfort. Her lips mumbled rhythmically like a papist telling the beads of her rosary. Words, then phrases, then whole sentences emerged from the muttering:

      ‘Thou are dearer to me than any creature; let that suffice … My Dearest, I could not satisfy myself to omit this post, though I have not much to write; yet indeed I love to write to my dear who is very much in my heart. It joys me to hear thy soul prospereth; the Lord increase His favours to thee more and more … I love to write to my dear … dearer to me than any creature—’

      She was wracked with a second spasm of pain, worse than the first. White sat there, still holding the candle, watching the agony twist her features beyond recognition. Automatically he found himself praying aloud, imploring God to ease her suffering in this world and the next. The pain slowly retreated.

      ‘Madam,’ he said. ‘You’re tired and you suffer much. Shall we continue later? I should ask your servant for your draught. It will help you sleep.’

      ‘No,’ she said with sudden vigour. ‘I shall sleep long enough later.’ Her hands went back to the papers. She shuffled through them. ‘Ah! This one, Mr White, this is what we need.’ She held it up so he could see. The paper was folded like a letter, but there was no name on it. She turned it over, showing him that the folds on the back were secured by three large seals. He made as if to take it, but she snatched it away and clasped it to her breast.

      ‘What would you have me do?’ he asked.

      ‘This is for my son,’ she said. ‘It must reach him with the seals unbroken. Promise me you will guard it with your life. My husband trusted you, and I shall too.’

      ‘You have my word, my lady. If you wish it, I shall set off for Spinney Abbey tomorrow.’ Old women, he thought, made such a business out of nothing. But he was relieved to know that the task was as straightforward as this; it would be tedious and tiring, but once it was done, he could find his way home to Katherine without returning here. ‘What is it? No more than forty or fifty miles from here across the Fens. It may take me more than a day at this time of year, but—’

      Mistress Cromwell waved the letter, cutting him off in mid-sentence. ‘No, no, Mr White. You misunderstand me. You must wait until I’m dead and in my grave. And this letter is not for my son Henry. It’s for my elder son Richard.’ Her mouth twisted. ‘Tumbledown Dick. Poor Dick. It wasn’t his fault.’

      He stared at her. ‘For Richard? But—’

      ‘He is in France or Italy, I think.’ Her mouth split wide, revealing pink gums: either a smile or a grimace of pain. ‘Think of it – the second Lord Protector, as he would be still, if God had so wished, in succession to his dear father; but he has not a roof to call his own or a gold piece in his pocket.’ The pain stabbed her again. He prayed silently while he waited for it to subside. After a few minutes, she went on: ‘You must wait, sir – months, if necessary. They watch us, you know, especially Henry and me, and also Richard’s wife. They may search this house when I am dead.’

      He thought, dear God, all this will cost a deal of money. He was also fearful for himself. Of all the surviving Cromwells, Richard was the one whom the King’s spies would watch most closely. He said, ‘How do I find him?’

      ‘You don’t.’ Mistress Cromwell gave him another glimpse of the pink gums. ‘Someone will find you, and you will give that person the letter. With the seals intact.’

      White leaned forward. Despite the cold, he felt sweat breaking out on his forehead and under his armpits. ‘How will I know him, my lady?’

      ‘Or her. Because the person in question will say these words to you: The walls run with blood. And you will say, Aye, fresh blood.’

      She drifted away from him. Her eyes closed. She rubbed the blanket between forefinger and thumb, slowly and carefully, as though assessing the quality of the material. In a moment or two, even that movement stopped. Her breathing steadied. When he judged she was asleep, he rose and tiptoed to the door.

      At the sound of the latch, Mistress Cromwell stirred and said something.

      ‘Madam? What was that?’

      ‘Bid him be kind to poor Ferrus.’

      ‘Ferrus?’ he repeated, unsure that he had caught the name correctly. ‘Who is Ferrus?’

      ‘I only gave him a penny. I should have given him more.’

      Mistress Cromwell murmured something else as she glided into sleep or unconsciousness. It might have been ‘Ferrus will help him.’ Or it might not.

       CHAPTER TWO

       The French Style

       Thursday, 16 January 1668

      THAT NIGHT, FERRUS sleeps with the dog that guards the kitchen yard at the Cockpit. The dog is a large, brindled creature with rough fur and a spiked collar. He is called Windy because that’s what he is. Ferrus has known Windy since Windy was a puppy. In those days, Windy was so tiny that Ferrus could hold him in his cupped hands.

      Ferrus and Windy don’t like each other. But they take each other for granted like rain and sun and nightfall. They keep each other warm on those nights when Ferrus can’t sleep in the scullery on account of something he has done wrong. (Cook never allows him to sleep in the kitchen itself, even on the coldest nights, because of the smell.)

      Ferrus is chilled