Who Killed Charles Cromwell?

[Sgt. Bloomfield]

The Privy Counsel building

"He has aged," thought Henry Bridgewater, watching the heavy figure limping along the grand echoing hallway that led to the chamber of the Lord Chancellor, Charles W. Cromwell.

Bridgewater glanced at his watch: It was nearly 11 o'clock on the morning of March 14th. Another dispatch of bad news from Turkey had just come in and the Queen was furious that Cromwell was ignoring her summons. Cromwell was alienating the other members of the Privvy Counsel. He would not receive foreign ambassadors, and had the Barons fretting. Now was the time to move.... Henry Bridgewater, his Indian tan all but faded, slunk back between the old and dusty columns and waited.

* * *

He did not have to wait long before he heard the dark clap of the door and the limping gait approaching. He may limp, but I know I have no chance of surprising Khan, thought Bridgewater. So he stepped out of the shadow. Khan had already been aware of him, his old battle senses registering the disturbance of dust on the great flagstones of the hallway. He looked at Bridgewater coldly and dispassionately. There was only one passion burining in his heart and that was vengeance. Vengeance for his brother and revenge upon Du Basra.

Bridgewater hesitated for a moment, taken aback by the paleness of Khan's face. Where now Bridgewater saw gaunt and drawn features, he remembered a powerful and healthy physique.

"How, how does the Lord Chancellor, Khan?" he managed to stammer.

Khan regarded him for a moment before replying. "The Lord Chancellor does well in one way and poorly in another. There has been a soothsayer to see him this very morning who has bid him beware of the ides of March... I am troubled for his health. And now, he is receiving some high-placed clergymen, who are come to honor him and extoll his virtues and to fan his inflated self even more... But you, Bridgewater, what are you about, hiding in the halls? Only yesterday I heard you visited the Exchequer, to circulate your name and your ambition!"

A shout of Cromwell, Cromwell, our great ruler! echoes down the hall. The men glanced down toward Cromwell's rooms and back at each other.

"Well," replied Bridgewater, "I wish you would not call it that. I have no ambition for my person, although I daresay I could aid the Privvy Counsel in these tempestuous times. But no, my ambition is for England, and I fear for her."

Khan: "I do fear as well that Cromwell would think himself King."

Bridgewater: "Ay, do you fear it? Then must I think you would not have it so."

Khan: "I would not, Bridgewater; yet I love him well. But wherefore do you hold me here so long? What is it that you would impart to me? If it be aught toward the general good, set honour in one eye and death i' the other, and I will look on both indifferently, for let the gods so speed me as I love the name of honour more than I fear death."

Bridgewater: "I know that virtue to be in you, Khan, as well as I do know your outward favour. Well, honour is the subject of my story. I cannot tell what you and other men think of this life; but, for my single self..."

There was another great shout from Cromwell's room: Our great Ruler, Lord Cromwell, Smiter of the heathen Turks! God's Holy Emissary! Cromwell!

Khan winced at the cries: "Another general shout! I do believe that these applauses are for some new honours that are heap'd on Cromwell."

Bridgewater: "Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world like a Colossus, and we petty men walk under his huge legs and peep about to find ourselves dishonourable graves. Men at some time are masters of their fates: The fault, dear Khan, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings... Upon what meat doth this our Chancellor feed, that he is grown so great? Age, thou art shamed! England, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!"

Khan: "What you would work me to, I have some aim: How I have thought of this and of these times, I shall recount hereafter... What you have said I will consider; what you have to say I will with patience hear, and find a time both meet to hear and answer..."

Bridgewater: "I am glad that my weak words have struck but thus much show of fire from Khan."

At that moment there was a commotion, and it was clear the Lord Chancellor's meeting was over. The far door flew open and Cromwell came out of the room, his face flushed and his manner agitated. He saw Khan and Bridgewater half-way down the hall.

Bridgewater quickly nodded to Khan, turned, and hurried away. The last thing he needed now was a meeting with Cromwell...

Cromwell called out: "Khan!" and Khan turned and limped quickly back toward the lord Chancellor, answering: "Lord Cromwell?"

Cromwell: "Let me have men about me that are fat; sleek-headed men and such as sleep o' nights: Yond Bridgewater has a lean and hungry look; he thinks too much: such men are dangerous."

Khan: "Fear him not, Lord Cromwell; he's not dangerous; He is a noble Englishman and well given."

Cromwell: "Would he were fatter! But I fear him not: Yet if my name were liable to fear, I do not know the man I should avoid so soon as that spare Bridgewater."

 

[Sgt. Bloomfield]

London streets, March 14th, 1704. Noon

This was the fourth day of wandering about London. At first she had been so happy to be away from her weak but overbearing father and her fretting, gossipy mother. She had eaten all she wanted, had taken a small room in the Westend. And then she had lain low. She did not want to be found. She knew they would look for her and she wanted her parents to worry and fret. She wanted them to be sorry for making such a scene after the party. Sir Elliot was such a wonderful and strong man. So, he was a little older, but she was not in twenties anymore, either. He was a hero, accomplished and dangerous. A man who had killed others in war, perhaps with his bare hands. He had braved the dangers of the colonial forests. He had served the elder Cromwell in Italy against the enemies of the crown. He wore the uniform with pride and style, and he had been knighted for his service and bravery! But most importantly, Sir Elliot had a big fat sword. Fanny giggled: she liked Sir Elliot's sabre.

So now she was gone and rid of the stuffiness of her depressing home. Anything was better than the endless stream of teatimes, polite company and pale, bookish suitors who were only after her father's money and would not touch her, even when they could elude the hawklike presence of her mother Czwina for a while. But where to go for now? She had heard that Sir Elliot stayed somewhere in Liberties of the Savoy, but she had not dared approach him yet. Let him stew a litte, his longing for her and passion would soon make him brittle. And there were his friends. Fanny Fennwick did not like that Lord Durham, who looked very much too young to be a Lord of anything. He had been mean to Sir Elliot, and even implied that he was his master. He must be one of the degenerate inbred aristocrats that were full of cynicsm and contempt for the merchant class. He had made fun of Sir Elliot and pushed his head down into that soup plate on purpose. And infront of the Queen! And he had scorned Fanny, looking at her like she was a pig or something.

No, Fanny would bide her time a little longer. She needed to learn more about what Sir Elliot was doing, and why they had all been whispering behind their hands about him. It had to do with Fournier's rebel friends, she was sure. Was Sir Elliot a rebel? Fanny shivered with delight at the thought. Was he plotting against the Lord Chancellor? There had been that fight at the party and all those foreigners. Fanny much prefered an English rebel. And think of the danger! Fanny would stand by her beloved Sir Elliot and brave all dangers with him. She would rescue him from the teeth of the French Secret police, she would endure the worst torture from the Spanish Inquisition, even hunger, for her Sir Elliot. If he believed in the cause, she knew it was right! Oh, Sir Elliot, let us fight together for justice and for love! Fanny sighed. First, she must find Pan Zagloba. A foreigner, but a gentleman. Fanny knew that he would lead her to Sir Elliot when the time was ripe. How her poor hero must already long for her!

Suddenly, Fanny was startled from her reflections by a poster on the side of a house. It looked like a proclamation. Fanny stepped closer and read:

   To the Free Citizens of Our Blessed English Empire
     [size=4]--  A PROCLAMATION  --[/size]
 On a Matter of Concern to all Honourable and Noble Men
        Regarding the Government of Our Empire

         All Lovers of [i]Freedom[/i] and [i]Sanity[/i]!

Why have the German Boors with their Smelly Feet been allowed
to ravage our Irish lands by the Lord Chancellor Cromwell? Why
has every resource of our Great Empire been poured into a 
vengeful and deluded war with the Heathen Turks while at home
the women weep and children play with human bones? Where are the
scores, the hundreds of disappeard Free Englishman that have 
stood in the way of the Lord Chancellor and his crazed Politicks?

  [i]Who is this Madman at the Helm of Our English Empire?[/i]

Where is the man who walketh London Streets and has not heard
the Lord Chancellor's slander of our Blessed Queen and Great
Mother of the Realm Anne? Who of all Stout and Honest Men can
say that he has not a Brother, a Cousin, a Dear Friend 
apprehended at Night and with Subterfuge at the Whim of the Lord 
Chancellor?

[i]   I come to Blame and to Accuse! Englishmen, take an honest 
   Reckoning of Years and Months past and Ye will find that our
   Lord Chancellor, the Lord Charles Cromwell is a Lunatick! A
         Murder ten-thousand fold and a Kingslayer![/i]

The Truth is out and my [i]Neck[/i] may well be in the Noose, but as
A True and Noble Englishman, I can no longer hold my Peace!

Oh England, that You must bleed and weep from the villanous
machinations of your First Servant! That hatred and delusion
reigneth thus, where Vision and Sobriety are the Order of the
Day!  The Lord Chancellor, he stands accused, accused of every
cursed Vice that in his name and reign has been committed upon
the Body and the Soul of Every True and Free Englishman!
Accused he stands by every stinking Corpse, of Degradation and
Depravity, of Insanity and Lunacy! How long, oh England, must
thee Suffer at his wicked Hand?

  [i]The City, Country, Empire Can No Longer Bear the Shame[/i]

Oh, would the Noble Churchill, Lord of Marlborough, were returned
from the Lowlands where he is kept at the behest of Our infamous
Overlord! The Good Marlborough would lead all English Men to 
put a Check upon Lord Cromwell's wicked Deeds!

             CRUEL CHARLIE, I PROCLAIM THEE ENEMY! 
         ENEMY OF EVERY ENGLISHMAN, FREE AND NOBLE BORN!
SAVE YOUR MANGY HIDE BEFORE THE JUST AND TRUE WRATH OF THE PEOPLE
                    BE THEY ETERNAL DOOM!

           [b]FREEDOM! SANITY! FOR OUR BLESSED EMPIRE![/b]

           [I]Long Live the Queen, our Hope and Joy![/i]

Fanny stood and considered the strange proclamation. This must be the rebels... This was their cause. They had shouted about killing Cromwell at the Party! So Cromwell was at the root of this. Cromwell was her beloved hero's enemy. Sir Elliot was fighting this noble cause against the wicked Lord Chancellor! His fight was her fight, and Fanny would give her very life for this noble cause! She tore off the poster. She turned and strode back to her quarters. Now Fanny Fennwick knew who the enemy was and how she could join in Sir Elliot's noble cause. Now she would win his undying love...

* * *

At the end of the alley, a slender young figure passed and saw the unmistakable shape of Miss Fanny Fennwick pause and read the poster. The figure slipped into the shadow, waited for her to turn, and then ran off, laughing softly.

 

[Lord Durham]

Sir Elliot had a big fat sword. Fanny giggled: she liked Sir Elliot's sabre.

Between Sir Elliot's sabre and Geoffrey's rapier, the women in London must be a bow-legged lot

And for the record (I checked with the scribes) Lord Durham did not push Sir Elliot's head into the soup. The said Sir Elliot performed that stunt all on his own. No outside aid was required

 

[Pan Zagloba]

If Onufry Zagloba had not slept on Ignacy's proposal, he had certainly lain awake on it. At about 5 a.m., he had decided to accept Ignacy's offer of support, but he was not looking forward to the consequences. Birgitta, though a lovely girl, knew her own mind, and would be sure to tell him what she thought. She might, thought Zagloba, even approve.

Despite the lack of sleep, 9 a.m. on 15 March saw Zagloba up and about, wandering around the house straightening things and occasionally running a finger along doorframes. "Look at you," he said to himself, "you're like a nervous courtier. You haven't been this bad since the election for English Ambassador came through."

His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Composing himself, Zagloba sat down, and a servant ushered Ignacy into the room.

"Good morning, Onufry," said the Captain-General.

"Good morning to you," replied Zagloba, politely.

"Have you had the chance to think about what we were saying last night?"

"I have," said Pan Zagloba, "and I think that if the Commonwealth should wish to call an old war-horse like me to the colours once again, I shall submit quietly to being saddled."

Ignacy smiled. "You know, Onufry, I wouldn't have suggested the job if I didn't think you'd be a good choice." He walked to the window and made a signal, which was swiftly followed by a knock at the door.

Before long, a small crowd had gathered in the room. Ignacy made the introductions. First was Effendi Djebal al Tarik, a Turk; next came the Irishman, Ristard. Then Zagloba was introduced to Sister Annunziata, a nun in what was really quite a skimpy dress, for a nun. Last of those present was the Seym member for Nowogrodek, Pan Tadeusz Reytan. Just as the introductions were finishing, the august figure of Cardinal Marcyan Pasek, and the slightly younger one of Jerzy Rzendzian entered the room.

"Now then," said Ignacy, when everyone had settled around the long dining-table. "I think that it is best we are all frank with each other about why we are here. The Commonwealth, as you know, sees the elimination of Cromwell and the pernicious elements that feed on him as a key priority. It also pays its servants well. However, I am under no illusions that anyone other than my Polish brothers is here for the glory of Poland. Let's go round the table and tell each other why we wish to see Cromwell out of the way."

Djebal al Tarik began. "Effendi Ostrowski, we Turks know that the men of Lakhistan are the most noble of the infidels. Only in Lakhistan can the true religion be freely practiced. For this reason, I am happy to unite my desires with yours, and act as the agent of vengeance upon this Cromwell. My desire is to stop the vile crusade this Cromwell has led against the Sublime Porte. This can only be done by his execution in the name of Allah."

Ristard stood and, looking uncomfortable without his accomplices, said "Cromwell deserves to die a million deaths - one for each of the brave Irish soldiers who have died at his command; one for each of the noble men of Erin who have been worked to death in the sugar plantations of the Caribbean; for all Irish deaths everywhere, this man Cromwell is personally responsible, and tonight Eire will stand up and say 'I am a nation again'." He sat down, purposefully.

Sister Annunziata said, "I have nothing personally against Lord Cromwell, but I wish to gain revenge upon Cardinal Pincers for scorning my services, and preferring those of Sister Felicia, that blonde tart."

Tadeusz Reytan, the Pole, said "I am a member of the Polish Seym, and as such am following their orders."

Marcyan Pasek said "Of course, I too am guided by the Seym's orders, though I must confess that the desire to have my revenge on Pincers for many slights over the years is also considerable."

Rzendzian said, "I am the ambassador here, and very keen to see the English alliance continue."

Zagloba said, "I, too, am the servant of the Seym."

Ignacy smiled. "Right then," he said, "to business."

"Hang on a minute," said Ristard, "shouldn't we swear an oath of loyalty over a swordpoint, or something? It doesn't seem a proper conspiracy without it."

Ignacy turned to him and said, in a matter of fact tone, "It is not a conspiracy, Pan Ristard, it is an extra-judicial killing carried out by the Government of the Commonwealth. The Commonwealth has no need to conspire with anyone. It decrees, and acts through its agents, and what is desired is made so. There is no need for anyone to swear on anything. Those who carry out their promises will be rewarded, and the Secret Division will handle those who do not."

Ristard subsided. Schooled in the arts of passionate resistance activity, he was slightly cowed in the presence of such ruthless professionalism. Zagloba saw for the first time that his old colleague was in fact just as frightening as he had always imagined the Secret Division to be.

"Now," said Ignacy, "it is now ... " he looked at his watch, " Twenty five minutes to ten in the morning. We need to be out of here by twenty past ten. Let us go through the plan." He unrolled a map.

"There are three targets. Of the three, one is to be killed and two are to be persuaded to put aside their office. Let us take the last two first.

"Pan Reytan has instructions from the Seym to search the monastery of St. Bartholomew, in Chiswick, to look for a missing Polish nun, Sister Sophia. He will arrive at the monastery at eleven o'clock, accompanied by Pan Rzendzian and the embassy guard. He will present his authority, carry out a brief search, and discover Cardinal Pincers in the attic room, being sexually pleasured by some of his nuns, including Sister Sophia. Astonished and horrified, he will instantly demand Pincers's resignation of his office. A notary and a painter will be present to bear witness both to the events and the consequences. If Pincers does not resign, Sister Annunziata will threaten to expose in detail the nature of his vile and disgusting perversions. A reporter from the London Mercury is standing by in Fleet Street should this become necessary.

"After obtaining Pincers's resignation, Reytan, Rzendzian and the embassy guard will travel by fast coach to Canterbury, where we are expecting they will arrive at about 5 p.m. They will go at once to the Pope - mentioned in Pan Reytan's commission as someone who should be involved if wrongdoing is discovered. They will expose to him the full nature of Pincers's dark side, and point out that as the man responsible, and a close confidant of Pincers's, there is no alternative to resignation. If the Pope refuses to resign, Sister Annunziata will receive a message to go to the press. We think this is unlikely, as we have primed a leading member of the anti-Pincers forces in the Inquisition, who will tell the Pope that he would be assassinated before the Inquisition allowed such damaging material into the public domain.

"We now come to Lord Cromwell. Tonight, there is a play being staged at the Cockpit Theatre in Whitehall - Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. We have sent Cromwell, via a maid in Queen Anne's service, a note, purporting to be from the Queen, requiring his presence at the performance. We do not think he will suspect such a note, as we have put it out that Lord Durham has commissioned the performance. Pan Zagloba will go to Cromwell's rooms just before the play begins, and use his persuasive skills to ensure that Cromwell attends. The performance begins at 7 p.m., and Cromwell will be sitting in the fourth row centre, in a specially reserved seat. After about 45 minutes, Caesar (in the play) is killed in the Capitol. One of the senators on stage in that scene will be Ristard, who will be armed with a pistol crossbow under his toga. At Caesar's death scene, Ristard will make a short speech about Cromwell's tyranny, then bring out his crossbow and shoot Cromwell dead. He will aim for the head only, and not try to hit him in the torso. If he misses, or Cromwell escapes, Djebal al Tarik will be in the audience at the back, and he will finish the job. Is that clear to everyone?"

Ignacy looked around the room. Everyone was nodding.

"Now," he added, "this is a plan, and plans by their nature go wrong. There are several important things to remember if something does go wrong. First, the Commonwealth has nothing to do with this. If you are captured, the Secret Division will deny all knowledge. Second, think before you do anything what the potential problems are, and what the escape routes might be. Third, we will be stationing embassy guards near the palace, but we cannot have them inside without arousing suspicion. If you are trying to escape, the guards can be recognised by their yellow waistcoats. Say to them, for your freedom and ours, which is the password and incidentally quite a pithy phrase for you to use when your turn comes, Ristard."

He paused.

"Everyone clear? So let's go." He made a gesture, and everyone except Pan Zagloba melted away into the street, in ones and twos.

"Now, Onufry," said Ignacy, when they had left. "How do you feel about that? I can't help thinking that sic semper tyrannis might have been a better password."

Zagloba just looked at him.

 

[Sgt. Bloomfield]

The Ides of March: am

The practice range, near the Liberties of the Savoy

"Elliot, now listen! Are you determined to go through with this?" Geoffrey Beaufort, Lord Durham of Dulsworth Castle walked up and down in agitation. Sir Elliot Bloomfield, in shirt sleeves, was putting a deadly edge on his sabre with a grindstone.

"Yes, Geoffrey, I am. You know that," he replied.

"But... It seems madness! To just march into the Privvy Counsel building, knock on his door, and then fight a duel with him! There will be guards! Khan will be there!"

"Well, as for Khan, Norfolk tells me he maybe on our side, now. So I am not worried. As for the guards, they'll let me in. I know Cromwell will see me. He remembers, oh, he remembers. And you listen to me now, Geoff: I appreciate your concern and your friendship more than I can express. But really, I have no choice. You know there is the play tonight at Whitehall, and Cromwell might well go. He'll see Norfolk and he and his spies will put two and two together: Norfolk, Julius Cesar, the poster, Norfolk's father, the Chamberpot, and Queen Anne' reception in '02.... They'll be on to him straight away! For years now I have been talking about duelling Cruel Charlie and now I must. I must or they take Norfolk in the night for that infernal poster he wrote and put up all over town. It's either Cromwell or Norfolk now."

"Yeah, Norfolk...." Geoff said softly. He knew that Elliot was right. Norfolk had really put his neck in the noose, as he had written in that poster. Geoff sighed. He liked the Bloomfields dearly and I was afraid of losing them. If only he could do something....

"Let me tell you something about Norfolk," Sir Elliot broke in on Geoffrey's thoughts, mostly to cheer Geoffrey up and to dispell the gloom of their conversation. "The lad has pluck. He is a bloody fool, and always was, but he has pluck and determination. I have treated him wrong in the past. I shouldn't have turned him out! But I was younger then, and a hothead, and I would not stand for that counting house nonsense. Still won't, really. And now poetry! You know what he did yesterday?"

"What, Elliot?"

"After the rehearsal for the play of his, he comes running back up to my room at the Grapes, it must have been around noon, and he barges in in that impetuous manner of his. Father! he calls out, you will never believe whom I just saw down in the Westend! Well, says I, whom did you see, Norfolk? But then he wouldn't tell me but started dancing around the room in an appalling and clumsy fashion, puffing out his cheeks and making as if he were in a skirt! I pressed him, but still he wouldn't say. And then he looks straight at me and starts reciting:

Husbands scatter with abandon,
Fanny Fennwick walks through London,
Rolling tears and heaving sighs,
Ugly robe and bulging thighs.

Fanny Fennwick! I exclaimed. You understand, Geoff, that I remember nothing of her except that she was very fat and wore this horrible lavender gown. And yes, she asked about my sword... Well, anway. Norfolk says she was reading his proclamation and then tore it off. What do you make of that? And should I send for that fellow Fennwick to tell him we have sighted his prodigal daughter?"

 

[Sgt. Bloomfield]

The Ides of March: am

The ancient monastery of St. Bartholomew

The old clock struck 9 am. Cardinal Pincers stood in the window, high up in the old monastery, looking out over the little copse of trees to the distant roofs of London. He was thoughtful.

Late last night, he had seen Sister Eloisa and her posse of deadly Spanish battle-nuns off. They would spend the last night under cover. It was important to lie low now. He could trust Sister Eloisa. But the Caballeros were in town and he did not like it. They were unpredictable and they had a history of bloody strikes against the Holy Inquisition. And there was that Father Petronius. Sometimes Pincers wondered if Petronius and his side-kick Holmes did not secretely cherish the memory of the heretic Templars. Pincers had not forgotten about twenty battle-nuns killed in one night, their throats slit. That looked like work beyond any organization currently active that he knew of.

But no time to worry now. Pincers should be in Canterbury, as agreed, so he would be far from London. But he was in no mood to face the old hawk Oriecchetti who had proven to be much less manageable than Pincers had forseen. But once Cromwell was out of the way, and Sister Eloisa would see to that tonight, he could face Ringo I and he could make his demands. There would have to be changes in Canterbury. Oh yes. And the first change would be that the infernal Cardinal Pasek would disappear. Pincers chuckled: His constitution, it's his consitution, all that bloody vodka.

The clock struck the quarter. No, Pincers would not go to Canterbury. He had ordered the carriage for half past nine and he would take it down to Torquay. You never know how things turn out, and a quick passage to Spain might prove expedient... Ridiculous precaution, really. It would all go smoothly. Cromwell would be dead before tomorrow, and then what would the Caballeros care about the Inquisition in England?

As Pincers turned to walk down the stairs, Sister Sophia, that delicious new acolyte, approached him. She was wearing her irrestible little robe and bent her head demurrely. Pincers licked his lips. He hesitated. What would the harm be in going at noon? Plenty of time to be safely away... He caught Sister Sophia's wrist and pulled her close. No. There was another way.

"Come with me, Sister. There is room for two in my carriage..."

 

[Sgt. Bloomfield]

The Ides of March: am

Jack Ketch's, near the Privvy Council Building

Khan sat over his second breakfast in his favorite Pub, Jack Ketch's. He has stopped chewing and he held before him the open locket. It held not picture of a woman. No. It held the picture of Khan's brother, dead now for many years, but not forgotten.

The pain was sharp and fresh this morning, and Khan pushed the plate away. He had no appetite and had been eating mechanically. He thought about his conversation with Henry Bridgewater. They had talked long into the night, yesterday. That had brought back the pain. Bridgewater had said many things, and he said them well. There were things he did not want Khan to know, and he thought he had Khan convinced.

But Khan was not so easily fooled. He had seen through Bridgewater's game. Bridgewater wanted Cromwell out of the way. He wanted Khan to kill Bridgewater. (And Khan must hand it to Bridgewater: he was shrewed enough to see Khan's new hatred of Cromwell.) Bridgewater had tried to conceal that he thought that he, Bridgewater, would succeed Cromwell as Lord Chancellor. He wanted the power. He had infuence (his father was a powerful Indian colonial) and he had the ability. Or had he? Khan was not sure. He rather thought that Bridgewater was too eager, to quick, and would overlook something important and would commit a serious diplomatic blunder quickly.

It was all beside the point. Damn Bridgewater. Khan did not care about him or even about who the Lord Chancellor would be. Khan had all but resigned from his duties. He had cared only about one thing these months past: Finding and killing Du Basra. But last night, Bridgewater had made him care about another thing. About who would kill Cromwell. Others were moving closer, and Khan cared about getting there first.

 

[Sgt. Bloomfield]

OOC: OK, guys, who catches the "Jack Ketch" allusion?

 

[Pan Zagloba]

Tadeusz Retyan, Rzendzian and about twenty embassy guards arrived at St. Bartholomew's just before 11 a.m. At that moment, Cardinal Pincers was in the attic room, instructing Sister Sophia in the correct use of mayonnaise.

Reytan presented his authority to the monk on the gate, and said "Good morning, reverend brother. I have here a warrant from the Polish Seym and Cardinal Marcyan Pasek to search these premises for one Jadwiga Olechowska, known as Sister Sophia, who I understand is a nun here. Please let me in."

The gateman had been present a few years previously, when a small detachment of Polish husaria had attacked the monastery. He was keen not to provoke a repeat of the experience. "Good morning, pony," he said, bowing down, "with respect to your honour, Sister Sophia is not here. She left about two hours ago for Torquay with Cardinal Pincers."

Reytan looked at Rzendzian, who shrugged. "How far will they be by now?" he asked.

"By your grace's favour, pony, I would have thought that they would be near Iver by now. It is his Eminence's practice during these excursions to break for rest and recuperation at Newbury. With a fast horse, you could be there by three."

Sister Annunziata, who was disguised as an embassy guard, said in a gruff voice, "I know where they'll be in Newbury."

"Then let us ride," said Reytan, and spurred his horse around, heading down the lane towards the Great West Road. He set off at a fierce pace. Rzendzian and the guards followed. Once they were out of sight of the monastery, Rzendzian sent a guard off to Ignacy Ostrowski with a message, and then followed on in Reytan's dust-cloud.

Meanwhile, in the attic, Cardinal Pincers moved on to mustard.

 

[Pan Zagloba]

On a hill outside Jerusalem stood a team of about two hundred men. There was a clanking noise as they shuffled awkwardly in their armour.

"If you ask me," said Corporal Barkdreg, "this is a bit less cushy than Italy."

There was a murmur of assent. The Free Company were a little more used to wine, women and song.

"But then again," said Lt. da Silva, "this job is the best paid we've ever had, and is only one day's work. We can take the whole year off after this one."

There was another murmur of assent. Wine women and song came a poor second to large amounts of money.

There was the sound of hoofbeats on the road, and people pricked up their ears. Four horsemen had come over the hill, all in newly-polished armour. A couple of men made half-hearted jokes about the Apocalypse. They knew that the fighting was about to start.

The leading horseman pulled up sharply in front of the Free Company. Raising his visor, he saluted the last horseman as he rode up, and announced with military clarity, "His Lordship the Grand Hetman of the Crown!"

Firley looked the Free Company up and down. Not, perhaps, the most neatly-presented company he had ever commanded, but they looked ready for most things, particularly acts of dubious legality.

From out of the ranks of the Free Company, a man stepped forward, saluted and said "Captain Corwyn Alambar and the Free Company, at your service, Hetman."

Firley saluted back. "Now, men," he announced, "our mission today is simple. We have two principal targets. Division A will be led by me, and by Captain Alambar. Our target is the governor's palace, where we are to take control for a brief period, and leave before any English reinforcements can arrive. For the purposes of this attack, we are a band of Jewish raiders from the hills. Limited looting is permitted, but no-one is to be harmed unless they resist. Is that clear? Division B will be led by Lt. Argael, and my colleague Kazimierz Kollataj, the Field Hetman of Hungary. Their mission is to take control of the Temple building site, and blow it up. A small detachment will be sent round the walls of the site to ensure all civilians are removed. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," said Captain Alambar.

"Very well then. Division A to me, Division B to Field Hetman Kollataj. Go!"

The Free Company divided into two groups. When they were settled, the Grand Hetman pointed his jewelled staff of office towards the city, and shouted "CHARGE!".

* * *

Jerusalem was a long way from the front line, and the guards who were on duty that day had not expected a lot of work. In particular, they had not expected two hundred heavily armed cavalrymen to come charging out of the hills, roaring defiance. They looked at each other for a moment, then stepped smartly out of the way, saluting as the men went past. "After all," as one said to a friend, "they might have been on official business."

Of course, they were. Without a sideways glance, the two divisions split from each other, and hurried down the narrow streets of the Old City towards the temple mount.

The guards at the building site showed as little desire to put themselves in harm's way as the gatekeepers. The palace guards, however, were made of sterner stuff. It took several minutes of hard battle to break through into the palace, and a few more minutes to find Dr. Dee's office. By that time, thought Firley, the door would be heavily barred. When they reached the door, it was unlocked.

"Wait here," said Firley, and went inside.

The first thing he noticed on entering the room was that it was completely bare. Every book had been removed from bookshelves, every picture from the walls - only the shadows of their frames remained.

The second thing he noticed was that his target, Dr. Dee, was standing patiently in the middle of the room.

"Ah, the Grand Hetman of the Crown Firley, I believe?" said Dr. Dee.

Firley stood amazed. "Er... yes," he said, after a moment.

"I have been expecting you, Pan Firley. As you can see, I packed up my possessions a little while ago. They will await my return in a secret location. Now tell me, what do you think of Onufry Zagloba?"

Firley was by now thoroughly discomforted. "He's all right, I suppose."

"Yes, I think so. He will go far, even now. Keep friendly with him. As for you, Pan Firley, you have reached the pinnacle of your profession, but you still have many years of happy life in front of you with ... ah ... Marta, is it not?"

"Yes," mumbled Firley. From outside, there was a muffled series of explosions.

"Ah, now that would be the Field Hetman of Hungary blowing up my little building project wouldn't it?" said Dee. "No matter, I can always start again some other time."

Firley stood in silent confusion.

"Well, Pan Firley, this chat has been most interesting, but I think we had better get down to work, had we not? There is a letter on the desk in which I announce that I have resigned and gone into the desert to meditate. Those who have met me will not think it strange. Now, is your sabre sharp?"

Firley nodded, and drew it from its scabbard.

"Then let us begin, Pan Firley. Don't worry about hurting me - I know you have your orders."

"Ah, any last words, Dr. Dee?" said Firley, readying himself for his swing.

"Hmm... How about 'I'll be back'?" said Dr. Dee, and Firley swung his sabre.

There was a swish, and the sound of sword connecting with cloth. Dee's robe fell to the floor in a crumpled heap, but there was no body within it. Firley picked up the robes, and left the room as fast as his legs could carry him.

 

[Pan Zagloba]

It was nearly time to make tracks for the palace, thought Djebal al Tarik. He left his rooms, over a shop in St. James's, and started walking down the road towards Whitehall. Suddenly a voice from behind him addressed him in Arabic.

"Brother Djebal al Tarik, could I take a moment of your valuable time?"

Al Tarik turned quickly, and his hand reached for his short sword. Khan held up a hand.

"Brother," said Khan, "I do not come to attack you, I come to ask you a favour."

Al Tarik relaxed, and bowed in greeting. "What favour is it you wish of me, brother?" he asked.

Khan drew al Tarik into the alcove he had occupied. "I know," he whispered, "that you have been asked by Istanbul to assassinate Cromwell. From the amount of activity going on, I suspect that things are coming to a head today. Is this true?"

Al Tarik hesitated.

"I ask," continued Khan, "not because I wish to stop the plot. On the contrary, I want the plot to succeed, but I want to strike the fatal blow. Can you help me?"

"If you are sure that you wish to do this..." said al Tarik.

"On my eternal soul, brother, I am."

"...then I think I may be able to help. The Lakhy have asked me to assassinate Cromwell as he leaves the Cockpit Theatre tonight. I have no objection to staying outside the theatre while you carry out the killing inside. That way I can support you if needed, and keep my promise to the Lakh leader, who seems to be of a ruthless nature."

"The Lakhy?" said Khan, "the Commonwealth have trusted you to carry this task out?"

"Not just me," said al Tarik, "I assume that they have plans in reserve. And I understand your surprise at my relying on the infidels, and their relying on me. However, I have respect for the Lakhy's tolerance of our faith, and they have a support network here that our Sublime Porte cannot rival."

"Very well, I shall kill Cromwell as he leaves the theatre. You stay outside if you want to, but I shall not call for you if I am in difficulties. Either Cromwell or Khan shall never return from that play."

"May God go with you," said al Tarik, and they embraced.

 

[Pan Zagloba]

The late afternoon of the 15th March.

By the Royal Mews, where Whitehall meets Charing Cross, a beggar sat begging for alms. Sir Elliot Bloomfield, wandering distractedly around London, had stopped to give him sixpence. The beggar had fixed him with a steely gaze, and said in a low voice, "Blessed is he that considereth the poor and needy. The Lord will deliver him in the time of trouble." Bloomfield had stopped for a moment, unnerved by the beggar's confidence, and then walked on.

Twenty minutes or more later, Norfolk Bloomfield passed by, looking for his father. He gave the beggar sixpence as well, to which the beggar had replied, "The charitable shall be had in everlasting remembrance, and their good will shine as the brightness of the firmament." Like his father, Norfolk stopped, thought for a moment, then passed on.

Some half hour later, Onufry Zagloba passed by, and tossed a shilling in the beggar. Looking at him with the same intense stare, the beggar had said "The people shall tell of his wisdom, and the congregation shall shew forth their praise." Onufry, too, stopped in his tracks, and turned back to the beggar. "What do you mean?" he said, sharply. "Nothing, sir, at all," said the beggar, "I bless you by reciting the holy book wherein all things are written." "Oh," said Zagloba, "very well." He looked uncertain, and walked off down Whitehall towards the Red Lion, where he proposed to have a couple of nerve-stiffeners.

After Zagloba had disappeared from view, the beggar got up, brushed himself down fastidiously, and headed off in the direction of Soho, to his last appointment of the day.

 

[Sgt. Bloomfield]

The Afternoon of March 15th

Canterbury

Pope Ringo I got up slowly. He was tired.

He walked slowly along the passage and through the small door. Then up the narrow winding stairs to the highest floor of the fortress-like Papal residence. Here was the Pope's private chapel and here Pope Ringo I slowly lowered himself onto his knees before the altar. He bent his head in prayer.

Asperges me, he mumbled, his eyes closed,
Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.
Misere mei, Deus, secundum magnam misericordiam tuam.

Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto,
Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum.
Amen

Asperges me, Domine, hyssopo, et mundabor: lavabis me, et super nivem dealbabor.

Outside, there was the sound of heavy wheels crunching on gravel.

 

[Pan Zagloba]

When he returned from the education of Sister Sophia, Cardinal Pincers was concerned by the news of Tadeusz Reytan's visit. Quickly abandoning his proposed trip to Torquay, he ordered his carriage to be prepared for a trip to Canterbury. "You had better come as well," he said to Sister Sophia, "if the Poles are looking for you, we need to get you clear. And we can continue the lessons in the coach." With that, Pincers and Sophia set off for Canterbury.

At the same time, Reytan and his companions were heading back into town from Newbury, where they had drawn a complete blank. "Pincers never even left the monastery! We should head back to that rathole and search it from top to bottom," said Reytan, pale with anger and frustration. "No we shouldn't," said Rzendzian, calmly. "Pincers will know of our visit by now. We need to head to Canterbury to warn Marcyan Pasek of the danger of confronting the Pope. If we don't turn up, he may try it anyway, just to force Ringo's hand. So that's where we should head."

Reytan, calmed by the Ambassadors rationality, nodded and pointed his horse towards Canterbury.

 

[Lord Durham]

March 15 - Early Evening

Queen Anne stood in the centre of the bedroom while her ladies-in-waiting fussed about, tittering like old maids at a beheading.

As this was a semi-official function, she had chosen to wear an incredibly uncomfortable hooped skirt frame, and an even tighter corset. Over these items she wore a rather ornate gown, dark red in colour and trimmed with gold sequins. It was the latest design from a man named Kline.

For a finishing touch, the Lady Sarah Churchill placed a gold tiara on Queen Anne's head, then stood back to admire the handi-work.

"You look absolutely stunning, Anne."

"Thank you, Sarah, though I'm not sure Geoffrey will be impressed. He hates it when he has to take an hour to undress me."

All the other ladies laughed gaily at the Queen's joke.

'Jerks,' she thought to herself. How much they sound like hens. God, I hate this job.

She put on her best smile, "If you could finish my makeup, like good little ladies, I will be off to this play."

* * *

Geoffrey Beaufort, Lord Durham of Dulsworth Castle, adjusted the sleeves of his white shirt, then pulled down on the short blue jacket that covered his torso. Why did these clothes had to be so god damned tight! It cut off the circulation. He looked down. Well, at least tight clothes served one useful purpose.

He strapped on his sword belt, adjusted it at a fashionable angle around his waist, then sheathed the rapier with a flourish.

He left the room to find Sir Elliot, his son Norfolk, and Harper waiting for him. Sir Elliot gripped his sabre rather tightly, while Norfolk appeared rather pensive. Only Harper seemed calm. They descended the stairs of 'The Grapes' and walked from the tavern.

Harper whistled shrilly to hail a coach.

A massive eight-horser pulled up. The driver looked down, chewing on a stogie. "Where to, bub?"

"Whitehall! And step on it!"

* * *

Father Petronius Falkenberg and Father Holmes hurried along the cobble-stoned street. The sun was setting and evening was near. The theatre was not too far away, now. They would make it in ample time.

As usual, they were watched every step of the way.

 

[Pan Zagloba]

Ten to seven, and Onufry Zagloba walked uncertainly down the corridors of the Whitehall Palace. He had been there many times before, but for once he was nervous. Several people had reported Cromwell’s increasingly odd behaviour. What if he took a sudden dislike to the old knight, and went for him with a fire iron? Zagloba could even be sent to jail, now he was without his cherished diplomatic protection.

He reached the door of the outer office, and entered. The space outside, normally crowded with clerks and waiting visitors, was deserted. Those few who remained to bear Cromwell’s daily rages had all headed over to the Cockpit. Young Bloomfield, with his literary connections, had secured for this performance a very well-known troupe of actors.

Zagloba reached Cromwell’s study, and knocked. There was silence, so after a moment, he knocked again. There was a crash inside the room, the door was flung open, and Zagloba staggered backwards. Cromwell himself loomed in the doorway, red of face and looking much older than Zagloba remembered.

“God damn it!” Cromwell cried, “Do you have to stand there battering the door down? Knock once and enter – can’t you read, you cretin?” He gestured at a small brass sign next to the door, which read ‘Knock once and enter’. “What the hell do you want?”

Zagloba shrunk a little more. “All hail, Lord Chancellor,” he said, “I come to fetch you to the theatre.”

Cromwell was not placated. “To the theatre? Why should I want to go there? Will I see interesting matters? Will I see diverting entertainment? Or will I be forced into the company of that whore’s strumpet, the cess-pool of all women?”

Zagloba, unfurling himself somewhat, said, “My Lord, the Queen expects your presence there.”

“Let her expect. Take my message that I will not come.”

“My message from the Queen brooks no delay, my Lord.”

“Tell her that I will not. Not that I cannot, nor that I fear to, but that I will not.”

“Most mighty Chancellor, let me know some cause, lest I be laughed at when I tell her so.”

“Tell her that she is the pox-infected daughter of a worthless peon, and pollutes the very ground she walks upon.”

“This answer will offend,” said Zagloba, calmly, “regard thyself.”

This reply seemed to have hit home. Cromwell stood in thought for moment. Zagloba could see the old political schemer coming to surface, and the raging madman being brought under control.

Cromwell’s face faded from puce to a more normal colour. “I thank you for your pains and courtesy. Give me my robe, for I will go.”

And together they walked down the halls of Whitehall, Cromwell in moody silence, Zagloba murmuring thanks to all the gods he could think of.

 

[Pan Zagloba]

Meanwhile, backstage in the Cockpit Theatre, Ristard was being unwillingly fitted with senatorial robes and toga. Strapped beneath his costume was a pistol crossbow, and he was reciting to himself the brief speech he proposed to make. Actors walked back and forth, and he caught snatches of lines.

“… but all remember what you have said, and show yourself true Romans …”

“… bring him with triumph home unto his house …”

Ristard smiled to himself.

“… Revenge! About! Seek! Burn! Fire! Kill! Slay! Let not a traitor live! …”

His face set in a tense expression, and Ristard returned to contemplating his lines.

* * *

Queen Anne and Geoffrey Durham were walking into the Cockpit, when they saw a familiar figure limping around the corridors outside. Geoffrey whispered “Khan’s up to no good. Perhaps he knows of a plot against Cromwell.” They passed on into the Royal Box.

* * *

Outside the theatre, on the wide promenade leading down to the disused Palace of Westminster, Djebal al Tarik walked to and fro. He nodded recognition at a yellow-waistcoated man, who looked right through him.

* * *

From a seat at the side of the stalls, Ignacy Ostrowski, dressed inconspicuously as a minor English noble, got ready for events to take their course. He was very fond of Julius Caesar.

* * *

Just before the play began, Cromwell and Zagloba entered the theatre. Zagloba took up an end seat some way away, to prevent danger if Ristard misfired. Cromwell lumbered into his seat, bowed at the Royal Box with extravagant sarcasm, and sat down with a thump.

* * *

The curtain was raised, and a group of actors marched past Ristard and onto the stage. The play was underway, and the first actor began to speak. “Hence home, you idle creatures, get you home!”

 

[Pan Zagloba]

Gilles Harnoncourt, a court musician, was enjoying his evening off. With this play on, his services were not required. He was therefore in the Red Lion with some other friends from the vingt-quatre violins, getting drunk.

Standing at the bar, waiting for the next round of drinks to be served, he cast an idle eye out onto Westminster Palace Street, outside the window. A group of nuns was walking up from the Westminster Palace end. At the same time, a group of minstrels was walking in the other direction. Gilles had a professional interest in which minstrels were in town, so he scanned their faces, but recognised none of them. As the two groups met, just outside the Red Lion, the minstrels drew broadswords from their instrument cases, and started laying into the nuns. The nuns, rather than running or screaming, whipped out a variety of evil-looking knives, caltraps and daggers from under their habits, and fought back fiercely. In less than two minutes, a dozen nuns lay dead or bleeding on the ground, and two minstrels had been dragged off by their companions. Two or three nuns limped quickly in the other direction.

Norman Balon, the landlord, came over with four pints of beer. “Norman,” said Gilles, uncertainly, “I’m fairly sure that a group of minstrels with broadswords have just attacked some heavily-armed nuns, killing or injuring a dozen of them.” He looked back at the street, where a group of priests were tossing the nuns into a horse-drawn cart. “And now they’re being hauled away by a group of priests in a cart.”

“Oh yes?” said Norman, polishing a beer glass, “Can’t say I’m surprised. I blame the Government, myself.”

Sir Elliot Bloomfield put his head round the door. “Geoff been in?” he said.

* * *

In the theatre, the play was well underway. Onufry Zagloba, his part of the business done, had relaxed, and was starting to enjoy events again. Ristard, however, still had his work to do. He peered from the wings out into the audience, and saw Cromwell where he had been expecting him. He could even get a shot in from this angle, he thought. But no, there had to be a reason, a motive. People had to be told about the suffering of the Irish race under English rule.

* * *

There are few places as deserted as the corridors of a theatre during the performance, and Khan had the freedom to wander to and fro, waiting for Cromwell to leave. He stood for a moment, looking out of the window that looked down from the Cockpit towards Rosemary’s Pond. Scanning the crowds that milled around in the park, his eye was suddenly caught by a familiar figure. He looked closely.

“Du Basra!” said Khan, a tone of immense satisfaction in his voice. All thoughts of Cromwell passed from his mind, and he slipped down the servants’ staircase towards the park gate.

 

[Pan Zagloba]

On stage, Caesar was making his way to the Senate House.

ÒThe Ides of March have come,Ó he said scornfully to the soothsayer before him.

ÒAy, Caesar, but not gone,Ó replied the soothsayer.

Ristard readied himself for his big scene. The Senators gathered around, and before long he was on stage in the heat of the limelight.

The world moved as if it was slowing down. Before he knew it, his cue had come.

ÒAs low as to thy foot doth Cassius fall, to beg enfranchisement for Publius Cimber,Ó said Cassius.

Ristard drew the crossbow pistol from under his tunic. He realised with a jolt that he had forgotten his prepared speech. Two minutes of crafted thoughts on the Irish question, completely gone out of his head. He realised that people were looking at him, the actors in confusion, the audience in expectation of something interesting. It was now or never.

ÒFor your freedom and ours!Ó cried Ristard, and stepped to the front of the stage. He felt a tug at his ankles, looked down for a moment, and saw that he was tangled in his toga. As he began to fall forwards into the empty orchestra pit, he heard the twang of the crossbow bolt discharging, and then the orchestra pit was rushing up towards him, and the world exploded into stars.

The discharged dart shot down towards the front row of the crowd, who Ð thinking it was a theatrical prop Ð remained unmoved. It bounced off the metal rail of the orchestra pit, shot up almost vertically and came to rest, vibrating, in a gold-painted cherub above the proscenium arch.

It took a moment for the audience to realise that it was a real crossbow dart, and then panic erupted. About half of the audience cowered under their seats, the rest rushed for the exit. Leading the pack as they left the auditorium was Charles Cromwell, who had seen where Ristard had been aiming and was heading back to his office at full speed. In the Royal Box, Geoffrey Durham had thrown himself on the Queen at sight of the crossbow, and they were now having fun trying to extricate themselves.

Pan Zagloba struggled up and rushed out after Cromwell, barging through the crowds. Ignacy Ostrowski got up calmly, vaulted into one of the stalls boxes, and slipped through its back door into the corridor.

 

[Lord Durham]

As Geoffrey poked his head up to see that all was safe, the Queen pulled him back and down and gave him a rather unqueenly kiss. When they released she whispered, "Is that all you ever think about?"

The young lord grinned, then pushed himself back to his feet. He stood in front of the Queen, to shield her with his body, while the Queen's own men-at-arms flanked her, and watched the back entrance to the Royal Box.

Below them was pandemonium, as people pushed, shoved and stumbled their way to the exits. High-born and low-born alike fought and elbowed their way in desparation, each thinking they could be the target of some assassination attempt.

It took a few moments to realize that the Queen was not the target of any such attempt. He looked closer at the struggle on the stage, and with some surprise recognized not only Ristard, but Brother Holmes!

It didn't take a genius to figure out who the target was, now. But Brother Holmes? How did he fit in, and did that mean that Petronius Falkenberg was involved, too?

Then he spied the portly form of Pan Zagloba barging through the crowd toward Cromwell's box. The man moved with a surprising agility for someome of his age and girth. The wonders of a young wife, Geoffrey mused.

He turned to Queen Anne, "I believe you are safe, your Highness. I think Fat Bastard was the target of this mayhem. But to be sure, I think we should get you out of here, now." Geoffrey motioned at Harper, who slipped out the door.

The Queen nodded at the men-at-arms and they followed, moving out and taking up station on both sides of the corridor.

Harper came back in, "The way is clear, your highness."

As they exited the Royal Box, Geoffrey briefly wondered what had happened to Elliot, and especially Norfolk.