His decision to keep quiet was overturned. Gideon had to confess everything that very night. A disaster occurred. When Catherine Keevil went out to fetch Tom from his music lesson, she was followed. On Fleet Street, as they were passing Sergeants' Inn, a man approached them.
'Thomas Lovell! Well, my boy — do you remember me, I wonder?'
Tom stopped dead. Catherine saw the boy's young face light up. She tried to drag him on their way but he shook her off, crying with joy, 'It is my father, come home!'
The man embraced him, seeming to wipe away a tear of emotion. 'Why Tom! My dearest son, this is a lucky accident — now I have found you, come with me and I will tell you of adventures we can share — ' He then turned to Catherine and, changing his manner, muttered with deadly earnest, 'Scamper off home, wench. Tell Mistress Juliana Lovell not to feel anxiety. Her son has come to his father, who will take the most loving care of him — ' Then, as he caught Catherine by the arm with a grip that bruised her under his fingers, Lovell dropped his voice further so the boy could not hear. 'And tell that meddler Captain Jukes, not to do anything! He will understand.'
The last Catherine saw was the pair of them walking away towards Temple Bar. Tom was still bowed under the weight of his cased viol, which he wore slung on straps on his back. The man had his arm around Tom's shoulders and was carrying his music bag. To Catherine, the boy looked like a prisoner. To anyone else who noticed them, they were the picture of a happy father and his son.
Chapter Seventy-Nine — The Westminster Plot, 1656
At first, this was the most exciting thing that ever happened to Tom Lovell. He had achieved his troubled adolescent dream and run away from home.
He no longer had to go to school. He had dumped his tiresome younger brother and could avoid having to decide how he felt about his new baby sister.
He missed Hero, his dog. His father promised him another, though had not produced one.
Thomas now lived among men, who congregated in smoky taverns. They gave him beer, not troubling to water it, or ale, which was stronger, and sometimes even sack. They never went to church. Nobody said grace when they ate. They rarely sat down all together in any case, just took food individually when they felt like it. No one told him to change his shirt. If he needed a privy, they gestured where to find it and left him to go on his own.
He lived with his father in a rented room in an inn. His father was just as he remembered, careless and casual, the product of staggering adventures, bright-eyed with mischief, brimful of fascinating secrets. He had brought Tom amongst tough, tense, mismatched men who said little but, when they did, obsessively spoke of the day that was to come. They were planning a grand venture that would rescue the country from anarchy. This was all about as wonderful as a boy could want.
Orlando Lovell behaved like a loving father. He made sure there was food, he teased, joked, chased and scuffled; he even shared confidences — priceless ones. When the boy dropped from exhaustion, he tucked him up to sleep with unexpected tenderness. He never even poured blame on Juliana, but spoke to Tom of his mother with courteous gallantry. If Orlando expressed regret that she had chosen another man, he measured it with what appeared to be understanding of her predicament. If any of this was fake, the boy hardly saw it.
For Lovell the situation was perfect. He had been spared a decade of colic, vomit, shitty napkins, squalling, screaming, anxiety, the tedium of endlessly repeated infant's questions, the fractiousness, rashes and snot of childhood illnesses; instead, fate presented him with a fully formed loyal companion. Thomas came as a respectful schoolboy, ready for anything, yet still young enough to be obedient. Lovell romanticised his firstborn's birth and early years, in retrospect remembering his own role in Oxford and at Pelham Hall as much busier than it ever had been. Juliana was gradually washed out of the picture. Lovell behaved to Tom as if throughout the past twelve years they had been close comrades and best friends.
Tom wanted to write to tell his mother he was safe. Lovell let him prepare a letter, then secretly destroyed it. Tom never imagined his father would do that; indeed, he saw no reason why it should be necessary. When no answer came, he was troubled and unhappy. At first he blamed his mother for not caring, then, because he had her questioning intelligence, he wondered.
Thomas knew that Juliana would be heartbroken to have lost him. She had always encouraged Tom and Val to think affectionately of Lovell, yet Tom realised how much she would hate his going off to his father. He became very nervous of her anger; he knew he had behaved thoughtlessly and ungratefully. He wanted to be with Lovell, yet from the first he suspected that the reasons he had been taken up were not simple. His father seemed to want him here — yet Tom sometimes felt that he was being used. He disliked the pressure. He knew he was among people who had secrets, but he began to resent the faint sensation that there was more going on than he yet knew.
Thomas felt he must not be seen watching the conspirators too closely. But they fascinated him. Miles Sindercombe took the lead and controlled the funds, an ex-soldier — cashiered for plotting — and a Leveller. Sometimes they spoke of another man. Colonel Edward Sexby was providing them with weapons and ammunition. He was overseas, exiled, though they reckoned he still came to England, despite the spies looking for him. It was said Sexby might arrive here later. Until then, Sindercombe acted as their leader, Sindercombe devised the plans.
There was a man called John Sturgeon, who had prepared the way for their attempts by strewing copies of a pamphlet in the street. It was called A Short Discourse of His Highness the Lord Protector's Intentions against the Anabaptists, highly critical of Cromwell; the printer had been arrested and Sturgeon only narrowly escaped. (Tom said nothing, but he had already heard about this from Gideon; the printer's arrest had caused a sensation — more than the book itself.)
Others were on the fringes of the plot. A couple of times Lovell had supper with a Royalist called Major Wood, who was acting as go-between, travelling to London from the Continent. Tom noticed that his father talked to Major Wood in a completely different tone from that he used among the conspirators. Lovell and Wood had a natural ease together, speaking in catchphrases and laughing; their behaviour together was open and relaxed. If Sindercombe or one of the others arrived, Major Wood smoothly closed down this intimate conversation. In private, Wood and Lovell referred to the others sneeringly as Levellers. It was a term Tom knew from Gideon and Lambert, but he had never before heard used as an insult. Tom soon gained an impression there were two groups of plotters, the Royalists and the Levellers, cobbled together extremely awkwardly.
In closest cahoots with Sindercombe was another dissatisfied Parliamentary soldier, John Cecil. He was no longer in service, but still had army contacts, men whom they met from time to time in taverns. Loosely attached to the group, though vital, was John Toope, one of Cromwell's Lifeguards, who gave them information of when and where Oliver Cromwell would be. Miles Sindercombe had known him in the army too. He seemed extremely nervous. Every time Toope left them, the others would go into a huddle to discuss whether Toope was burdened by misgivings, whether they could trust him, how good his information was, whether he was liable to let them down.
Tom's father worked on John Toope, with Sindercombe. Tom saw them pass over coins. 'There's five pounds again, John, on top of the five we gave you before and when the tyrant is properly taken away, there will be fifteen hundred. You are sure to be made a colonel of horse, with your own troop, when the deed is done.' There was no idealistic talk of rights and liberty, only bleak bribery that promised money and honours.