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“You ca
“I came to talk to people who knew my father. To clear his honor of stain.”
He considered this remark fully, digesting all the implications it contained, before he replied, gently but cautiously. “That is commendable in a son, and understandable in a child whose fortune depends on it. But I think you will have an uphill struggle.”
In the past, my tendency when faced with such remarks was to erupt into a burning rage, during which I would voice all ma
“It is a struggle I must undertake. I believe my father was i
“Your family, surely…”
“They know little, and tell less. Forgive me for interrupting, sir. But I need to know at first hand what transpired. As you were one of the key figures in His Majesty’s great trust, and are reputed for your fairness, I thought to approach you first of all.”
A little delicate flattery often oils the wheels of converse, I find; even when it is recognized for what it is, such comments show a recognition of indebtedness. The only requirement is that the compliments be not too coarse, and do not jar on the ear too loudly.
“Do you think my father was guilty?”
Mordaunt considered the question, still with a faint air of surprise on his face that the discussion was taking place at all. He made me wait a long time so that the kindness he did me was fully appreciated before he sat down, then indicated he would permit me to sit also.
“Do I think your father was guilty?’’ he repeated thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I do, young man. I tried hard to believe in his i
I told him that I was working more or less in the dark; I had rarely encountered my father once I had come to an age at which such matters were understandable to me, and then he had been as discreet with his family as, I am convinced, he had been with everyone else. There was always the possibility that the soldiers would come for us, and he wanted us to know as little as possible for our sake and his own.
Mordaunt nodded, and thought awhile. “You must understand,” he said quietly, “that I—very reluctantly—concluded that your father was indeed a traitor.” I moved to protest here, but he held up his hand to quieten me. “Please. Hear me out. That does not mean that I would not be happy to be proven wrong. He always struck me as a good man, and it shocked me to think that was a sham. It is said that the face mirrors a man’s soul, and that we can read there whatever is written on his heart. Not with him. With your father, I read wrongly. So if you can prove this was not the case, then I will be in your debt.”
I thanked him for his ope
“Now,” he went on. “How exactly do you plan to proceed?”
I do not remember exactly what I said, but I fear that it was of a touching naïveté. Something about finding the true traitor and forcing him to confess. I added that I was already certain John Thurloe was the man behind it all, and that I intended to kill him when I had the evidence. However I phrased it, my remarks brought a small sigh from Mordaunt.
“And how do you intend to avoid hanging yourself?”
“I suppose I must discredit the evidence against my father.”
“Which evidence are you talking about?”
I bowed my head as the depths of my ignorance forced my confession. “I do not know.”
Lord Mordaunt looked at me carefully awhile, although whether it was with pity or contempt I could not make out. “Perhaps,” he said after a while, “it might help you if I told you something of those days, and what I know of the events. I do not speak because I believe you are correct, but you do have a right to know what was said.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said simply, and my gratitude to him then was whole and unfeigned.
“You are too young to remember much, and were certainly too young to understand,” he began, “but until the very last moment His Majesty’s cause in this country seemed doomed to extinction. A few people continued to fight against Cromwell’s tyra
“They accomplished nothing, except to keep hope alive in men’s hearts. Certainly they were active; scarcely a month went by without some scheme or another—a rising here, an assassination there. If these had come to fruition, Cromwell would have been dead a dozen times long before he died in his bed. But nothing of substance took place, and Cromwell’s army was always there, a vast block against anyone who wanted change. Unless that army could be defeated, the road to the Restoration would be forever closed, and you do not defeat the most effective army in the world with hope and pinpricks.”
I suppose I must have frowned at his criticism of these heroic, lonely men and their struggle, and he noticed it and smiled regretfully. “I do not disparage,” he said softly, “I state the truth. If you are serious you need all the information, good and bad.”
“I apologize. You are right, of course.”
“The Sealed Knot had no money, because the king had no money. Gold can buy loyalty, but loyalty, on its own, ca
“Excuse me,” I said, foolishly risking a second interruption, even though I could see the first had displeased him. “But when was this?”
“In 1658,” he said. “I will not bother you with the details, but my friends, and chiefly my beloved wife, beggared themselves in bribes and so confused the panel of judges who examined me that I was released, and escaped before they realized the size of their error. No such good fortune was with the others. They were tortured and hanged. More importantly, it meant all my efforts in the king’s cause were in vain—the new organization I had labored to construct was destroyed before it even began its work.”
He paused, and courteously requested a servant to bring me some cakes and wine, then asked me whether I had heard this story before. I had not, and told him so. I felt like telling him also that I found it thrilling to hear such details of danger and bravado, and that I wished I had been older, that I could have met the dangers with him. I am glad I did not; he would have found the remarks childish, as indeed they were. Instead I concentrated on the gravity of the events he was describing, and asked a few questions about his suspicions.