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Chapter 30


“Is that the home of Sir Franklin Leigh?” asked the man with the pockmarked face, swinging off his horse.

One of the men-at-arms who was waiting to spar again on the Upper Nobut village green with the thirty or thirty-five men there lowered his sword and turned to him. Behind them in the distance, visible in the broad gap between a coaching inn and a smithy, stood a grand house with seven chimneys made of local limestone and red brick.

“Who is asking?” he inquired, looking the well-dressed man in the dark blue suit up and down as if judging whether they’d be evenly matched in a fight. The ease at which he stood said that he believed that he’d be the winner. He wore a metal helmet and a thick leather jerkin.

“My name’s Ben Sandown,” the man said. “I bring a message for him from London.”

“London, is it?” the man-at-arms asked, his thick brows rising. “Go over and ring the bell, then. We’ll see whether the squire wants to hear tidings from London.”

Some of the other fighters near him laughed. Ben laughed, too.

“We’ll see, then,” he said. “Remember me, won’t you?”

The man gave him a strange look. “Are ye worthy of a place in my memory?”

“I will be,” Ben said. He raised his chin to the man in the polished breastplate on the horse beside him. He turned away and walked his own steed up the lane toward the house. The men looked after him for a while, then went on with their exercises.

“May I ask your business, sir?” the footman asked, when he answered the door. He was dressed in breeches, a good linen shirt, and an embroidered waistcoat. His employer must pay well; such a thing would cost a month’s wages in the East End of London.

“I bear a message for Sir Franklin from the king,” Ben said. “May I enter?”

The footman looked impressed. Hardly any emissaries from the crown had come here in a long while, and that was half the problem, according to Ben’s employer.

“Squire’s at table,” he said. “Will you wait here?” He gestured to a door to the left just inside the foyer.

“No, I’ll see him in the dining room,” Ben said. He pushed past the footman, and listened for the sound of cutlery on crockery. “It’s this, isn’t it?”

He twisted the handle of the elegant mahogany door and swung it open. Give credit where it was due for the Leighs’ management, the hinges didn’t make a single sound. Hence, the lady being helped to chops from a silver platter only noticed him because of the unfamiliar movement. She looked up in annoyance.

“Who are you, sir?” she demanded.

By now, the gentleman of the house, Sir Franklin, had risen to his feet. He stood the same height as Ben, but carried a good deal more weight. Again, more signs of prosperity that was not being shared with the crown.

“What do you mean, coming in here like that? Get out of here!”

Ben was undeterred. “I come on behalf of His Majesty the king,” he said, standing at his ease. “You have not paid this year’s taxes. So far, you have ignored three letters requesting you make good on your obligation. It is time to pay.”

For a moment, Sir Franklin looked apprehensive or guilty. It didn’t matter which. Then his face turned red.

“Leave my home, sir!” he said. He strode to the doorway and shouted through it. “Phillips! Call the men!”

“His Majesty has been more than patient,” Ben went on as though nothing was happening. “Your taxes go to support services that benefit the duchy as well as the royal estates. The roads, the security of the realm, ministers to oversee all the aspects of life for all of the king’s loyal subjects.”

“And to pay mercenaries like you,” Sir Franklin said. He snatched a walking stick from a tall jar near the door and made for the messenger. Ben neatly sidestepped it.

“Oh, where is Phillips?” Lady Leigh asked. The children, five in all, none older than twelve years, had abandoned their seats. The younger four fled to their mother’s arms. The eldest, a gangly boy who had the first few silky strands of a mustache beginning to grow beneath his nose, came up to confront him with the meat knife gripped in his skinny hand.

“You are not welcome here, sir,” he said. To his credit, the voice didn’t squeak.

“I am not addressing you, sir,” Ben said, not bothering to hide his amusement. “Go back to your mam’s teat.”

“How dare you!” Lady Leigh protested.

Possibly emboldened by her words, the boy sprang at Ben. The man sidestepped neatly, grabbed the boy from behind around the neck and the wrist, and squeezed until the knife fell on the floor. The boy snarled, and this time his voice did break. Ben spun him away. The boy crashed into the wall and fell down. One of his sisters ran to him.

“I suggest you send for your strongbox, Sir Franklin,” Ben said.

“I will not pay such rapacious sums!” the gentleman said. “Taxes have tripled in the last two years. How am I supposed to support my estate on what is left after the king milks us dry?”

Ben shook his head. “That’s not His Majesty’s concern. Perhaps you can undertake economies? You are surrounded by fine things, many of which could be sold. Or perhaps not feeding so heavily at the trough, eh? Your waistcoat needs to be let out at the seams.”

By now, the footman came scrambling into the room. “Sir Franklin!” he exclaimed, out of breath.

“Where are the men?” his employer demanded. The footman gibbered and pointed toward the door.

“Oh, yes, about the men,” Ben said, lightly. “They will not come.”

“What?” The squire turned on him in a rage. “Why not?”

“Because my men are keeping them busy. This is your last warning. Now.” Ben fixed a cold gaze upon him. “You must pay up and satisfy the king’s requirements of you. Or you will be in arrears, and a claim might be put upon your manor on behalf of the crown.”

Sir Franklin still stood firm, both hands clutching the upraised walking stick.

“And if I do not heed that?”

Ben shook his head. “Ah, I was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”

He swept up one of the side chairs from the table and brought it down on Sir Franklin’s wrists. He heard a crack, though he was fairly certain it wasn’t breaking bones, only bruising. The man let out a scream of pain, falling to his knees. Before Sir Franklin could recover enough to defend himself, Ben threw the chair aside and latched onto the squire’s shoulders. He hoisted the man to his feet and hauled him bodily out of the dining room, down the hall, through the front door, which stood ajar, and down the brick steps to the drive.

In the distant square, it looked like chaos, but was in fact organized and managed. Fifteen pikemen on horseback rode around the villagers, keeping them herded together like sheep. From Ben’s perspective, they hadn’t had to harm any of them yet, not substantially. One of the horsemen doled out a solid bang on the helm of a man trying to break through the cordon.

“Let go of me! What are you doing? Who are they?” Sir Franklin shouted.

A couple more of Ben’s mercenaries rode up.

“Family’s in the house,” Ben said, tilting his head toward the door. The men swung off their mounts and dashed up the steps.

“Leave them alone!” Sir Franklin protested. He fought to break free. Ben let him stand up, then delivered a solid punch to the man’s wobbly gut. Sir Franklin doubled over. Ben joined both his hands and brought them down on the upturned back, dropping the man to his knees. Then he began kicking him. The man fell on his side, trying to protect his face. He tried to crawl away, but Ben hauled him back and continued striking and kicking him.

“My husband! Pray let me go to him!” Lady Leigh screamed, as one of the armored men brought her outside. The children were herded down the stairs by the other.

Of course, the elder boy had to throw himself to his father’s defense, pummeling the attacker with both fists. Ben backhanded him. The boy fell down the stairs and landed on the gravel drive. He looked like he wanted to cry, but came barreling back in again. Ben had to admire his spirit. He was already twice the man his father was. He swatted the boy back. This time, one of his lieutenants, a broad man with greasy black hair, grabbed the youth and held onto him with an iron grip.

Lady Leigh huddled against the doorframe, trying to shield her younger children from the fray. They screeched at Ben to stop, but he ignored them. There was nothing they could do. A lesson had to be taught, not just for one minor landowner, but for everyone he knew and would tell later on.

When Sir Franklin lay on the fieldstone terrace, still awake but not moving, Ben crouched down to meet his eyes.

“You’re evicted, Sir Franklin Leigh, you and all your family. This manor and the lands belonging to it are now the property of His Majesty the king. Next time, if there is a next time, you will obey His Majesty’s concerns.”

Sir Franklin hauled himself painfully to a sitting position. He bled from his nose and one eye socket, and bruises were starting on most of his face. “But you can’t displace us like that!”

Ben felt in the pouch at his belt. He fished out the writ that the chancellor had signed and threw it into the man’s lap. “I can. The Duchy of Lancaster belongs to the crown. If you had paid up on time, you would have been spared. But since you have been heard to voice sedition—”

“I never did! I am loyal to His Majesty! My family has served for generations.…”

“Ah, but your men have heard you state your opinions. They talk about it in the tavern, or didn’t you know that? His Majesty demands absolute fealty.”

Now, Sir Franklin was coughing blood. Ben doubted it was a sign of anything fatal. “I have always given the king all honors.”

“But that is not all he requires from you. Your estate now belongs to the crown. You have an hour to remove necessary belongings and move on. His Majesty is merciful in not setting torch to this house.” The Leighs gasped, but Ben remained impassive. He had no intention of burning it. It was too fine a place, and His Majesty would find it to be a good foothold in this area. If in fact the Earl didn’t buy it instead. Ben knew that he had bought up a few of these distressed properties. “You’d best begin as soon as you can.”

Such evictions served so many purposes: putting down potential rebellion, to forestall the disaster that was rumored to befall the king in the future history books, and to enrich his most loyal minister in the meanwhile. Also, Ben thought with a grin, to line the pockets of his faithful in the meantime with rewards for each successful eviction. There was no downside that he could see. He stood guard on the doorstep with his men, keeping an eye on the church clock.

Lady Leigh, released from the grip of the dragoon, ran to her husband, crying her eyes out, wiping the blood from his face with a lace handkerchief. She sent one of the children running. The tot disappeared around the rear of the house. In a short time, she came back with two men and a horse-drawn cart and a carriage.

Ben gave it some thought. Should he prevent them taking their carriage? No, there was nothing more piteous than displaced gentry showing up on the steps of a neighbor with all their goods behind them, begging to be taken in. Let him have that.

The eldest boy helped his father up, wiping the blood from his lips. Ben saw the look on his face. The rebellious glare. Ah, here it came. The youth came charging toward Ben, who had learned his craft as a mercenary in Europe and had practiced it in the taverns of London. The boy swung wide. Never learned to fight, did he?

On the lad’s next charge, Ben stuck out his foot, tripped the lad to the ground. With a few well-chosen punches, the boy lay still, winded, a sound bruise growing on the side of his face. Ben had taken the fire out of him without doing unnecessary damage.

“You’ll thank me later for my mercy,” Ben said.

“I’ll kill you,” the boy snarled.

“When you grow up, perhaps we’ll meet again,” he said. “But I’ll have learned more tricks in the meanwhile. You’d best help your mam before the clock runs out. I’m not so patient as to wait past the church bells’ chime.”

He watched them pile things onto the cart, silks and silver, paintings and rolled tapestries. What did it matter if they took fine goods with them? Their biggest asset was gone. According to the tax rolls, this gentleman owned another very small house to the east of this one. Ben could take possession of that, too, as the tax was as of yet still unpaid, but the lesson had been taught. He had all the time in the world to make his point again next year. But he would have taken a solid wager that the taxes would arrive early then. In fact, he would be surprised if it took more than a fortnight to make his debt good to the crown, but the Earl of Cork would add hefty interest on top of it to rescind the eviction.

Patiently, not letting the grin he felt show on his face, he waited until they had packed everything on the wagon that they could. He watched them roll away. Once they were out of earshot, he called his men to him. The horsemen let the would-be army escape back to their homes. It looked like there were plenty of bruised bodies and egos, but no dead, and no major injuries.

He assessed his ragtag force with an expert eye, and nodded to the captain of the company, Johann Rawl. Rawl stood forth at the head of the band of mercenaries.

“You are now stewards of the king,” Ben bellowed. “Some of you will live in this house and respect it as if His Majesty was about to visit. Do not loot this place by as much as a penny piece. Do you understand me?”

“Aye. I do,” the men chorused. Ben wasn’t convinced, but he trusted Rawl’s judgement.

“Choose a handful of men to remain here to guard His Majesty’s property.”

Rawl surveyed the squad. “Reggie Deer.”

Reggie, a wiry man in his early thirties that Ben had signed up when he saw him win a dirty fight in a tavern against four other men, shifted the pike in his right hand to his left and scratched his ribcage. “I ken ye well enow.”

Ben was in no mood to deal with insubordination. He grabbed the man by the ear, dragged his head down, threatening to pull him out of his saddle, and put his knife to the lobe. The point penetrated the soft flesh, making one ruby drop snake its way down the blade. “Do you understand me?”

The face, now inches from Ben’s own, wore an expression of alarm and instant respect. “Aye. Sir.”

Ben thrust him away. The horse danced a pace backward. “That’s better.”

Rawl reeled off four more names, and the men wheeled their horses to stand beside him. Ben addressed them.

“This is now an asset of the crown of His Most Sacred Majesty, Charles, by right of heaven lord of this land. Do not let anyone in you do not know. Let the servants leave if they want to, but let them know that their master is now the king. I’ll send you word when anything changes.”

“Wa’ abou’ them?” Reggie asked, pointing at the servants who huddled in fear on the doorstep. Ben shrugged. The servants usually stayed. Where would they go?

“If they want to stay, let them,” he said. “If they serve you well, pay them. You’ll be hearing from me. I’d best not find anything amiss when I return.”

Ben unwrapped his horse’s reins from the post where he’d tied it and rode off to the west with the remainder of his force. He had a letter to write to his lordship and other prospects to watch. Men like him were spread out across the landscape, making the Earl of Cork’s point that rebellion wouldn’t be tolerated.

They’d save the king from the headsman’s axe, and make a good profit in the meanwhile.

* * *

As the king signed his approval for his guest to depart, he watched as Meister Pieter Paul Rubens retrieved his broadbrimmed hat from the stand beside the door of the grand sitting room and bowed deeply to him. The king never noticed that the artist had been careful to wear only self-effacing black to visit Charles.

“Your Majesty, it has been the utmost pleasure and privilege to speak with you. I am so delighted that the commission is progressing with your approval. I only wish to please you.”

King Charles, clad in russet velvet and priceless Bruges lace, gold buckles on his shoes, and long hair scented with the finest and most exotic perfumes of the Orient, sat at his ease in the upholstered and gilded chair beside the ornate fireplace. He smiled, having enjoyed a pleasant hour of not only flattery, but a deep and detailed conversation about art. He knew a good deal, but had few courtiers who were as immersed in the study as himself. To have one of the most important painters of the day spending months in his palace was a coup to other heads of state.

When visits should resume between other nations, he would be pleased to show off his newest acquisition: the ceilings of the Palace of Whitehall. It was an expensive enterprise, to be certain, causing his chancellor to moan often about the costs to feed and house the army of apprentices and servants that Rubens had brought with him from Amsterdam. Charles dismissed all of the complaints, which he was amused to share with the artist himself. The glorious paintings in the coffered ceilings each paid tribute to interests of his: mythology, nature, the hunt, the pleasures of the table. Many of the main pieces were dedicated to his late, beloved wife. Henrietta Maria, his dear Maria, so tragically ripped from him. He stated that he would never get over her loss, but at least he could bask in her image. Rubens was happy to oblige him, as it would give him many weeks’ unfettered access to the palace.

Rubens had met her, and thought her a silly, spoiled woman, whose adherence to her Catholic faith had caused her to miss out on the most important moment as a queen: that of her coronation. Since she declared that she could never be crowned in a Church of England by her Protestant husband, she was queen in name only, not affirmed under God. He was sorry to hear about her death. Although he hinted broadly, a commission to paint a memorial portrait was not forthcoming. His Majesty was satisfied with the life-sized paintings of himself and his wife that Van Dyck had done. Rubens had applied an expert’s eye to these portraits, and, professional jealousy aside, had been satisfied as to their quality. Their four children were still very young. Rubens had offered to paint them as well, but Charles wanted to wait until they were older. The artist had done a few quick sketches for five-year-old Prince Charles, which amused the boy greatly.

Most of His Majesty’s courtiers were honored to have Rubens among them. It tickled him that a few of the youngest and richest affected tableaux in their best dress and jewelry to try and capture his interest. A few of them were worth painting for their own sake, and he incorporated some of Charles’ favorites into the ceilings and the murals. Flattery was a currency that he was happy to be able to coin. He warned his employees not to make promises on his behalf, no matter how much silver crossed their palms, but only to suggest that they would whisper the courtiers’ names into Rubens’ ear when the opportunity struck. He made it known he was also open to other whispers, ones that applied to his secondary profession, that of conduit of information that benefited his royal masters in Amsterdam.

With opportunity in mind, he traversed the hallways in the direction of the working side of the palace, greeting his newfound friends and hangers-on. With Parliament out of session for so long, there were far fewer people in Whitehall than there would have been. Most of the decisions, Rubens knew, were coming from Charles through the Lord Chancellor. He’d had a passing acquaintance with the previous holder of that office, Thomas Wentworth, and had found the scandal of the man’s imprisonment and escape as titillating as the rest of Europe did. The current inhabitant of the chancellor’s office was a grim and greedy man. Rubens didn’t trust Richard Boyle. He didn’t trust any politician, but in Boyle’s case, he was even more cautious to keep his interactions polite and bland. Flattery would get him nowhere. Boyle was not a man who could be turned by offering to immortalize him on canvas or plaster. If that obduracy had come with a staunch loyalty to his sovereign, that would be almost acceptable, but his eye was turned only to the main chance, to enrich himself, and only secondarily bestow advantages upon his master.

However, the supporters of the office of the chancellor were ordinary men, as prone to praise and bribery as any other. They generally remained in place, no matter who held the title. Phillip Haymill had replaced Wentworth’s aide, but had been a courtier before ascending to his place, and knew the palace inside and out. Rubens was well aware that the most important information passed through the chancellor’s hands, so it became worth his while to cultivate the acquaintance of those who served him.

On his first visit to Boyle’s office, he deliberately went when he knew that the man had gone out. Rubens’ great celebrity was enough to gain entrance to the outer offices, and Haymill’s natural cupidity made gaining his cooperation more than easy. A few coins, the promise of a sketch or a cartoon of one of the ceiling images, and the secretary not only cared little what Rubens investigated within his master’s chambers, but often set aside particularly interesting missives that he just happened to leave exposed upon his desk while chasing a fly, or sending a servant for refreshments for his distinguished visitor. Paper for paper, Rubens liked to call it.

“Greetings, my young friend. Is your master in?” Rubens enquired, as Haymill opened the door to his tapping.

“Alas, no, sir,” Haymill said. His long, fair face became wreathed in welcoming smiles. “I believe that he has gone out from the palace for a time. The day’s correspondence seems to have spoiled his mood.”

“A shame that is, for it is a fine day,” Rubens said. “I have just been chatting with His Majesty, and I wished to share the details with his lordship.”

Haymill’s eyebrows rose, for a chance to hear royal gossip was like a saucer of milk to a cat. “And how is His Majesty today? Well, I trust?”

“Very well he is. Ah, but I must not try you with dull conversation.” Rubens made as if to go.

“Oh, sir, pray do not!” Haymill protested. He pulled his own chair around for the artist and gestured for him to sit. “May I offer you a cup of wine?”

Rubens smiled as he settled into the leather upholstery. “My throat is slightly dry. I would welcome refreshment. Thank you, my friend.”

Haymill moved to the door, a knowing look on his face. “I will see to its speedy service. Pray forgive the untidiness of my desk. I have many papers to file for his lordship, and correspondence that I have just opened for his attention when he returns.”

“Take your time,” Rubens said, with a smile. “Take your time.”

The moment the door closed behind the secretary, Rubens took up the handful of documents that Haymill had indicated. His artist’s eye was expert at taking in an image in an instant. Most of them were begging letters, asking for a favor from the king. No surprise there. Every court received barrow-loads of those every month. Nothing of real interest was there.

Instead, Rubens glided, as much as a man of his elder years could, into the Earl of Cork’s personal study. This was a room where things got done. Behind the desk and underneath it were boxes of correspondence. Rubens had investigated it many times, and his keen memory allowed him to dismiss documents that he had already perused.

A box beside the desk was used for discards. One letter attracted his attention, as it was signed by many names. He scanned it.

The letter was from a group of guild masters of weaving guilds. Rubens didn’t necessarily recognize all of the names of the towns or cities they represented. They appealed to the king to step in and make more fair distribution of some magical device that one guild had acquired from overseas to make luxury woolen cloth, or remove it from that guild pending import of more devices for all. Rubens wondered why it would be up to the king to deprive an ambitious craftsman of an invention that benefited only him. Ah, well, petty jealousy was no new thing. The weavers argued that the import of such a device grossly unbalanced trade, and such a thing should not be allowed. They demanded that the matter go to the assizes to determine damages owed to them by the lone guild. That was unlikely, but one could bring suit for anything, if one had the funds.

He was curious as to the source of the mysterious device. It smacked of something that had originated in the new lands, in Grantville. What it was doing in the English Midlands aroused his curiosity, as it would surely do to the Earl of Cork, but the weavers’ suit did not. Either Boyle would ignore the letter or have Haymill send them a polite refusal for the Crown to take any notice of the suit.

It seemed that Rubens might already have seen this luxury fabric around London. A nobleman and his wife had appeared at soirees wearing garments cut from rose-tinted, textured fabric of complicated pattern that was clearly not silk or linen. Rubens had noticed the costumes, and had remarked upon them only because of the discomfort of wearing wool in a London summer. Perhaps he should have paid more attention to the pattern. Indeed, he observed expressions of envy in a number of nobles who attended the same event. He acknowledged the value of experimentation, and that it was indeed handsome and eye-catching, but why would anyone want scratchy wool when smooth, supple silks and velvets were available? Honesty made him admit that wool would not be ruined if it was rained upon, and if there was one constant in London, it was rain.

One letter after another begging for the king’s intervention in matters of property. His masters in Amsterdam were curious about rumors that the taxes imposed upon landowners were growing ever more onerous. That did seem to be true. A nobleman in the Duchy of Lancaster sent a missive that pleaded for restoration. It appeared that his estate had been attached by the Crown for nonpayment of tax. The nobleman in question insisted that he had paid everything that was required of him as of June quarter-day, and no more was owing. He complained also of the “bully boys” who had entered his home and evicted him and his family, causing much damage and distress, especially to his wife, who was now fearful of miscarriage.

Another missive, not on fine vellum, was written in such a coarse hand that Rubens had trouble deciphering it. A spy, of course, and in the same part of the country as the dispossessed gentleman, it would appear. The “parcel” was now ready for “receipt,” should his lordship care to take ownership of it. Rubens assumed that the matters were connected. The correspondent also spoke of the financial troubles of one gentleman in the north, who suddenly showed signs of prosperity. The spy was continuing to observe that gentleman as the Earl of Cork had instructed him. He would send further reports if anything came of it, and suggested that it could become another “parcel” to his lordship’s benefit.

All of these letters were returned to their precise locations on the desk by the time Haymill returned with a decanter of fine red wine and crystal goblets lined with gold on the rim. No doubt the secretary had used his name when obtaining them. Rubens tucked the information away in his memory to be sent to his masters in Amsterdam, and settled himself to give Haymill the reward of gossip that he desired. Rubens made a further mental note to beg Amsterdam to send the information onward to Magdeburg. Had they sold such a device to England, or had it been extracted without permission? He wondered if he would ever discover the truth.

“Well, my friend, His Majesty wished to discuss art,” Rubens began.



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