First, because as the supposed mastermind of the plot, he knew for a certainty it had never existed.
Second, because the supposed plot was preposterous to begin with-which was exactly the reason, he was quite certain, that Cork had not as yet pressed any formal charges against him. The charge was simply incoherent, looked at from the standpoint of logic.
What was he accused of trying to do? Take power? Thomas Wentworth had already had the power. As much as any minister of any king in English history had ever had. The only step up he could have taken would have been to depose the dynasty and replace it with one of his own-which was so ludicrous a proposition that he wondered if anyone even in that den of fools that called itself Parliament could say it publicly and keep a straight face.
In the end, he imagined, they'd accuse of him of having plotted to make himself "Lord Protector of England," using the known history of that other world as his guide. They might even go so far-probably would, in fact, since Thomas had never made a secret of his visits to the dungeon-accuse him of plotting with Cromwell himself.
Finally, it was nonsense because of the business with Leebrick. If he'd been working for Cork, why not simply pay him his thirty pieces of silver? Richard Boyle could certainly afford it. And even if one presupposed that Boyle had wanted to silence Leebrick and his men, surely-with a prepared plot and a cabal in place-he could have managed it without there having been the possibility of such a flamboyant escape by his intended victims.
No, none of it made sense. Happenstance alone had given Cork his opening, and he'd taken it.
Bleakly, Thomas stared out the window. His weeks of captivity had forced honesty upon him. Well, not that, exactly. Thomas thought he'd always been an honest man. But he'd now allow that he'd also been a man who was so intent on the rightness of his own course that he'd been oblivious-indifferent, certainly-to what other people around him might think of that course. Especially those who purported to be its supporters.
He'd made enemies, many of them, and many of them unnecessary ones. Cork had seized upon that, too.
Thomas could also have made the walk to Tower Green in two minutes, and someday he might very well do so. Walk to the same spot on the Green where William, Lord Hastings, had lost his head in 1483. The same spot where Henry VIII had beheaded two of his wives, and Queen Mary had beheaded Lady Jane Grey.
Not likely, though. The Tower Green was only used for executions that the crown wanted to be kept reasonably private. Most men lost their heads on Tower Hill, in front of the cheering mob-the London mob that detested Wentworth, because he'd stifled them. Cork would surely want to pander to that same mob.
So be it. Thomas knew now, with the advantage of hindsight, that Cork was repeating many of his own mistakes-and adding ones of his own into the bargain. Richard Boyle would find that the mob was fickle, and the king's favor more fickle still. He'd seized the power. Now, let him try to keep it.
A clatter at the door announced the arrival of the cleaning woman. The guards who accompanied her, rather. Left to her own devices, the woman would have knocked before she entered. The guards simply slammed the door aside. It was just one of the many petty little arrogances they indulged themselves in, not realizing that their effect was the exact opposite of what they intended. The earl of Strafford knew the ways of power far better than his captors. It was not true, of course, that all bullies were cowards. Many of them were not. But it was true that all bullies were insecure. Fearful of the world, if not the man they confronted at the moment.
She was a new one, he saw, but obviously a Warder's kin like the former one. Perhaps his regular cleaning woman had taken sick. That would hardly be surprising, given the cavalier way the new mercenaries had ignored Rita Simpson's sanitary arrangements. Wentworth worried now about the health of his own wife and children.
The woman placed the basket of foodstuffs upon the table and then went about her business quickly and efficiently, while the guards waited at the door, lounging against it in boredom and chatting idly. Wentworth himself simply remained at the window, ignoring them all.
To his surprise, the cleaning woman spoke to him briefly on her way out. Very softly, in words the guards couldn't hear.
"Make sure you try the new bread, my lord. It's quite tasty."
He stared at her for a moment, as she hurried toward the door, then looked back at the window. A few seconds later, he heard the guards closing the door and bolting it from the outside. That took a few seconds, since the original bolt was a heavy one and they'd added two more.
Even if they decided to re-enter, they couldn't do so quickly. Now intently curious, Thomas went over to the table and picked up the loaf of bread. When he broke it open, he discovered that a note had been tucked inside. He extracted the little piece of paper and went over to the fireplace. This early in spring, there was a fire going. Not a big one, but big enough to consume any small piece of paper that got tossed into it, within a few seconds.
It was a short note, with no signature. But Thomas was fairly certain that he recognized the handwriting. Lady Mailey's, he thought. He and the American ambassadress had exchanged a fair amount of correspondence over the months since he'd had her and her party sequestered in St. Thomas' Tower-which he could have reached from here with a walk of less than a minute. He'd been struck by the combination of her excellent penmanship and the complete absence of any of the flourishes that people in his time who had good penmanship normally added as a matter of course.
A very short note. King James. Jeremiah 51, Verse 44.
The one book they'd allowed him-no way to refuse, not that book-was the Bible. And it was the King James version, of course.
He found the passage quickly.
And I will punish Bel in Babylon, and I will bring forth out of his mouth that which he hath swallowed up: and the nations shall not flow together any more unto him: yea, the wall of Babylon shall fall.
Slowly, he set the Bible aside and stared at the fire. Then, placed the note into the flames. Then, went back to staring at those same flames, as they consumed the wood that had once been solid and hard.
Chapter 34
By midnight, Elizabeth Lytle was anxious. Anthony and the others should have returned by now. Quite some time earlier, in fact. It didn't take but twenty minutes to walk to the house where Juliet was staying. They'd been gone for over two hours.
She put on her outerwear and opened the door, then hesitated. Walking the streets of Southwark in the middle of the night was not safe for a woman. Not for a man, either, come down to it, unless he was armed and capable with weapons.
For a moment, her lips twisted into a grimace. There was one sort of woman who did it as a matter of course, without normally being bothered. Attacked, at least. But in her whoring days, Liz had never worked the streets. She'd worked the theaters, with a far more select clientele-and one that invariably carried swords. She applied the term "whore" to herself simply because she was blunt by nature, but she'd actually been more in the way of a courtesan for gentlemen.
Still, although she'd never done it, she knew the way it was done. So, after a moment, she took off the outerwear and spent a few minutes changing into more flamboyant costume. Fortunately, with the early spring chill, she'd still cause no notice if she wore the outerwear. But any footpad would spot the underlying garments and assume she was a streetwalker plying her trade. More to the point, he'd also assume that whatever money she was carrying from her night's work wouldn't be enough to warrant the risk. Whores could be dangerous in their own right; their pimps, even more so.
She went out the door and hurried into the night. She was actually far more worried that she'd encounter a pimp who, not recognizing her, would assume she was attempting to operate on her own, and would take it upon himself to explain to her-with a beating-that such was not the way her business was properly done.