Downing strode along Fetter Lane, then turned into Fleet Street, his green coat billowing around him. The roads were full of people in their best clothes, and entertainers were out in force, filling the streets with music of varying quality. A dancing bear performed near the Maypole in the Strand, although it was obvious from its odd gait that there was a man inside its skin. Chaloner followed Downing at a distance, taking care to remain hidden among the jostling, bustling crowds.
But when Downing headed towards White Hall, Chaloner hung back uncertainly. Was the diplomat right? Would Thurloe and Ingoldsby really try to kill the King? Thurloe had been devoted to Cromwell, and Ingoldsby had been the Lord Protector’s cousin, so it was not an impossibility, but would they be so foolish? Chaloner realised that, even after all that had happened, he was still not sure of Thurloe’s true mind, and cursed him for being such a complex man. He leaned down to rub his leg, trying to reach a decision. Should he prevent Downing from going to the Earl? He could have a knife in Downing’s portly frame without too much trouble, but then what? It might take several minutes to locate Livesay’s letter, during which time the murder would be noticed – and there was no point in killing Downing if he could not retrieve the missive. Should he try to reason with him, or delay him? Chaloner straightened slowly. Neither would work, because he had nothing with which to bargain.
But, if the accusations were true, should he be contemplating ways to prevent Downing from doing his duty anyway? Chaloner had not approved of the execution of the first monarch, and he would certainly not condone the murder of a second. He hung back, irresolute and unhappy, and aware that he had never experienced so many conflicting loyalties.
Downing marched towards the Banqueting House, which was busy that day, because the King had ordered another Touching Ceremony. Crowds had gathered, not only to be blessed by royal hands, but to watch the monarch at work among his people. Soldiers in buff cloaks and the Lord Mayor’s men in scarlet were plentiful, but their presence was more ceremonial than protective, and Chaloner imagined any attack on Charles would throw them into a chaos of confusion. It would be easy for determined men to kill him as he moved among his subjects.
The King had not yet arrived, although judging by the atmosphere of tense anticipation, the milling crowds would not have long to wait. A number of barons were already there, clad in their finery, and presenting a stark contrast to the scrofula-stricken hopefuls, most of whom wore the dull browns and greys of poverty. The grandest noble of all was Clarendon. His blue robe was liberally adorned with gold ribbon, while a collar frothed with lace beneath his ample jowls. He wore a wig of pale yellow, which sat oddly with his dark moustache and tiny beard. There was an ornamental ‘town sword’ at his side, which glittered as he moved, and looked as though it would be next to useless in a fight. He carried a leather bag, which was old and scruffy enough to look strangely out of place with the rest of his glorious attire.
He and the other courtiers huddled at the Banqueting House door, waiting to greet their monarch, and guards had been ordered to keep everyone else out until the ceremony was due to begin. Chaloner tensed as Downing stalked towards the gathering, and watched with a feeling of helplessness as the diplomat tapped the Lord Chancellor’s shoulder and whispered something in his ear. Clarendon nodded assent to whatever he had been asked, and followed Downing inside.
Chaloner took the last of the money Kelyng had given him, and tossed it towards the door. There was an immediate commotion, during which the crowd surged forward with a yell of delight and the soldiers fought to keep the rabble away from the noblemen. While everyone was otherwise occupied, Chaloner slipped into the Banqueting House porch, just in time to see the tip of the Earl’s cloak disappear through a door to his right. He set off in pursuit, and found himself in the undercroft, a vaulted chamber that had been designed as a drinking den for King James. Charles II used it for lotteries, although that day it had been designated a storeroom, and housed furniture stacked to keep the main hall clear for the masques, balls and dances planned for the Christmas period.
Neither Downing nor the Earl bothered to check whether they were alone, and it was easy for Chaloner to step into the room undetected, remaining out of sight behind a pile of benches. He did not know what he hoped to achieve by eavesdropping on the Lord Chancellor and the diplomat, and was acutely aware that it would probably mean his death if he were caught.
‘… letter from Sir Michael Livesay,’ Downing was announcing in his loud, confident voice, ‘about seven men who plotted against the King’s return. In exchange for his liberty, Livesay names then alclass="underline" himself, Thurloe, Ingoldsby, Barkstead, Hewson, Dalton and Chaloner. He also outlines details of a plan to hurl grenades at the King – perhaps when he comes for the Touching Ceremony today.’
‘I see,’ said Clarendon. He sounded bored. ‘Another tale of a threat on His Majesty’s life. That will make five this week, and every one has been a hoax.’
‘This is not, My Lord,’ said Downing stiffly. ‘It is perfectly genuine.’
Clarendon snatched the paper from his hand. ‘These assassins will be somewhat thin on the ground – Hewson, Barkstead, Chaloner and Dalton are dead, and Livesay obviously will not take part, since he has given you advance information about it.’
‘Just Thurloe and Ingoldsby,’ agreed Downing. ‘Livesay says they intend to hurl their fireballs, then escape in the confusion. If you want to catch them red-handed, he will tell me the place where they have stored their deadly weapons – a room they rented together for that express purpose. Dalton was helping them – I saw him with gunpowder myself – but he met the end he deserved.’
Chaloner closed his eyes in mounting despair. Fireballs. Gunpowder was needed to make fireballs, and Sarah had said Dalton had kept two barrels in his house. Therefore, Downing must have been telling the truth about the vintner making grenades. He reflected on what he knew of Dalton’s arsenal. Sarah had expected a second explosion after the first, but it had not come. Was it because the other keg had been moved, perhaps to the ‘rented room’? Chaloner recalled the man with whom Thurloe had collided on his way to the fire, who had something hidden under his cloak. The ex-Spymaster had been so intent on his sister’s rescue that he had taken no notice, but the man had seen something in Thurloe to check the torrent of abuse he had been about to hurl. At the time, Chaloner had assumed it was Thurloe’s grim expression that had stopped the fellow, but now he reconsidered. Perhaps it was because he had recognised a colleague. The man had been Ingoldsby’s height, and he had taken care to conceal his face.
‘Livesay does not say where these weapons are hidden,’ said the Earl, as he read the letter. ‘He obviously does not trust you, because he is holding back.’
Downing glared at him. ‘With respect, My Lord, that is not the reason. He is just trying to secure himself the best possible bargain before he plays all his cards. It is blackmail, in essence.’
Clarendon scanned the letter again. ‘This is a very malicious piece of writing. It does not smack of a man seeking to redeem himself, but of vindictiveness and spite. I do not think Livesay composed it.’
Downing was startled, and so was Chaloner. ‘What are you saying?’ demanded Downing, affronted. ‘That I wrote it myself?’