London, scudding rainclouds, a cold breeze from the Thames; it smelled of fish gasping on mudflats. Sydney and Hampden in the Old Palace Yard near Westminster Hall, facing the Court of Requests and the House of Lords. Fawkes and the his gunpowder conspirators had been executed here in 1606, in the shadow of the institution they had meant to blow up. Pikemen everywhere — the Yard’s corners, marching in pairs up St Margaret’s Lane, through the Churchyard, around Westminster Abbey.  Sydney and Hampden were waiting for the Earl of Essex, Captain-General of Parliament’s armies, to emerge from a meeting with Committee of Safety.

“Yes, I’ve heard the same,” Hampden said. He looked tired: arriving from Northampton and midnight, three hours’ sleep at Sydney’s house in the City, up before dawn for meetings at with Commons committees. “Men flocking to the King; those who fear they’ll be declared malignant, their estates seized. So, finally, he’s raising an army: not from love of his person, or ‘Thorough,’ God knows, but from fear of losing their wealth.”

“Perhaps,” Sydney said, “It should have been guaranteed that property would not be violated.”

Hampden smiled. “I thought you, of all men, would applaud fierce measures.”

“I don’t like the idea of expropriation,” Sydney said. “Hang the man, if you must — if there’s treason, if there’s Popery, if slap-and-tickle with the enemies of England and religion. Rip them out, root and branch. But leave property alone.”

“Really, Sydney?” Hampden said. “And if you were could purchase the estates of, say, Falkland. Or Lindsey. At a third of its value — what would you say?”

Costermongers in the green between St Margaret’s and the Abbey: “My apples, sir, last of the sweet summer’s.” Smoked fish; sweets; ribbons. Peddlers pushing tracts: Papist plots, two-headed calves, sects that worshiped naked or prayed to angels. Garbage, most of it, intended to amuse and titillate, unlike the newsbooks sold by the booksellers; but every once in a while, a gem of truth. That’s why Hewitt was among them now, a fat form haggling merrily with the women, it being important for he and Syd to see what Anglia Rediviva may have missed.

Sydney sighed. “We are indeed vessels of hypocrisy and sin, are we not? But again, Colonel: in cases of actual treason and Popery, yes. Falkland, or Hyde, or Spencer: decent men who are misled — no, I would not. And I would defend their right to their property.”

Hampden nodded. The handsomest man in the Kingdom, and one of the wealthiest. The best days of Syd’s youth had been at Hampden House, the rolling meadows of Buckinghamshire, the ancient earthworks of the Chiltern foothills. Hampden, his uncle, had taught him to fish, to ride, to hunt; and let him keep all the kittens he wished. There was peace there, and a stern gentleness, a sense of the ancientness of England, and the obligations of those blessed enough to be born here to cultivate it with love: a thousand miles from the raging, drunken squalor of Holyfen Rectory, his father’s house.

“Many of those with the King,” Hampden said, “or joining him now. They’re not Papists. They’re not — and do not repeat this. They are not, despite what was said in parliament, traitors. They don’t wish for the Roman or Spanish despotism to be imposed here any more than we do. They don’t particularly relish taking up arms for the King, for this King. But they do, because he is the King. Because he is the Crown, because he is the cornerstone of order, and because that is the way it’s ever been in England.”

“I’ve heard from Holyfen village,” Sydney said. “My father.” He contrived by his tone to make “father” sound a curse. “The old fool said, He has eaten the King’s bread for fifty years, and cannot desert him now.”

“And is that so contemptible, Sydney?” Hampden said. “Forget that it’s your father. Sir Edmund Verney, the Knight Marshal, said much the same. You know Verney. He fears God and respects the laws, as we do; he despises  Laud, he’s no use for the bishops or for Thorough. But he thinks that to abandon the King would be a violation of honor.”

“I know what Sir Edmund said,” Sydney replied. “Everyone’s seen a copy of the letter. ‘I choose rather to lose my life, which I am sure to do, to preserve and defend those things which are against my conscience to preserve and defend.’ I have the greatest respect for Sir Edmund. And for Sir Jacob Astley, a blunt and honorable old soldier that I wish was in our army. But Colonel, while they may despise bishops, and Popery, and Thorough — by fighting for the King, that’s what they are, in effect fighting for.”

“That’s unfortunately true,” Hampden said. He paused. His eyes, dark brown were sad; had been so since 1634, when his wife has died. Sydney remembered the funeral: Hampden quiet and alone through the service; standing in solitude at the grave after all other mourners had departed. “An eternal pattern of goodness and cause of love.” So said the epitaph he composed. “A loss invaluable, but fully recompensed in her translation from a tabernacle of clay and fellowship with mortals, to a celestial mansion and communion with a Deity.” The death had firmed him, honed his resolve, strengthened his dedication to the good of England.

“But it’s in our army too,” Hampden continued. “What your apprentice saw  — the drunkenness, the thievery — I’ve seen that. I’ve prepared a letter for Essex, and we’ll speak of it on our ride north. But the greater concern, the greater dear, is that most of these boys, raising arms against the King is treason, the worst treason. A good portion, maybe a plurality, haven’t been schooled by the Puritan preachers as we have. ‘Touch not mine anointed’: they’ve heard that from baptism on, that rebellion is the worst of impieties. I’ve heard them say it, on the march: jesting, but with fear behind it, fear of the fires of Hell: ‘We are all traitors.’”

“Charles is the traitor,” Sydney said. “Charles and those around him, traitors to the laws and . . .”

“I know that,” Hampden said impatiently. “You know that. But the soldiers, there’s enough of them that don’t make those distinctions.”

“But enough of them do,” Sydney said. “Else they would not follow you. And the ones that don’t, should.”

Hewitt trotted over, an apple in one hand, a bundle of tracts in the other. Hewitt was portly, with a ruddy, merry face, thick blond hair.

“Colonel,” he said to Hampden. “Brother,” to Sydney. “Apple, anyone? No? In that case . . .” He took a bite. “Where’s the Captain-General?” to both.

“Still within,” Hampden said. “Yes, Sydney, they should. And one day, it’s my prayer they will. But in the meantime, I pray — as you should, as should we all — for one battle. One quick battle, that will convince the King he cannot win. And then we shall negotiate.”

“For what, Colonel?” Sydney said.

“That he would abide by the laws which guarantee the rights and liberties of Englishmen. That he governs with consent of Parliament, as representatives of the people, and that Parliament have right of approval over his ministers. That he undo the episcopal system, and have an end with the bishops and the Laudian ceremonials and whatever else tends to Popery. And you, Sydney. What would you ask?"

“Abolition of the customs. An end to monopolies.”

“The thoughts of sinners,” Hewitt said, “tend to debauchery. Of the godly, to our Lord and His will. Sydney’s, to free trade . . .”

“Do you insinuate, Cousin, that free trade is not God’s will? The control of what one may buy or sell is despotism, and an evidence of Antichrist, as Revelations testifies.”

“Err, no that’s not what I was insinuating. God’s wounds, I’ll not let that cat out of the bag. Anyway, wherever is our Captain-General? Still with the Committee? My how they talk. He’s not, we know this, in the bedchamber of . . .”

“Mr Hewitt,” Hampden said sternly. “I beg you. Five minutes among the sellers of fish, and you swim in the gutter.”

Hewitt blanched. “Please accept my apologies, sir. . . well, why is he still with ‘em? Why hasn’t he left for Northampton, already? The regiments marched out near a month ago, he’s still here, Christ’s blood, what more could there be to talk about? One can’t but wonder why, is my point.”

Sydney looked at Hampden, who gave a short nod.

“Essex wanted to be named Lord High Constable,” Sydney said. “With authority to negotiate peace with the King. The Committee — Colonel, please stop me if I misspeak, or speak too much — was not willing to grant it. . . Essex, you see, would preserve the bishops, so there was concern that . . .”

“He’d cut some sort of deal with the King?” Hewitt said. “Well by the bowels of Christ, Syd. That’s just the sort of thing the readers of Anglia Rediviva may wish to know, don’t you think? How long have you been sitting on this little egg?”

“Two or three weeks. He’s not going to cut any deal with the King; he’s an honorable man.”

“Which I don’t challenge or question at all; my point is, we’ve a sort of responsibility, as I see it, to inform people why the Captain-General isn’t at the head of his flinty warriors urging them into the breach. This haggling with Parliament makes good news; imagine the fun we’d have if it were Charles or Rupert.”

“Hewitt, really. Essex is our general. We’re not going to shake out our quarreling . . .”

“We have a higher duty, brother,” Hewitt said. “To the truth.”

“Indeed, Hewitt,” Hampden said, still stern, but with a small smile on his sad, weary face. “Which is why we’ve taken up arms against the King. Under the command of that man — who, look, has just come forth from the Court of Wards.”

It was indeed the Captain-General: Robert Deveraux, third Earl of Essex, a big body on thin legs. Moving slowly, a pace just short of hobbling. His first marriage was dissolved on grounds of impotence; his second wife’s adultery with a nobleman made him a byword for cuckoldry in the court of the King. Still, he had served bravely in Germany and the Low Countries, had refused to pay Charles’ forced loan, and led the opposition to King Charles within the House of Lords.

He lit a pipe and puffed slowly as Hampden, followed at a respectable distance by Sydney and Hewitt, approached. He touched his hat in response to their bows, and watched them with placid, uninterested eyes, as though waiting for a comment about the looming rain.

“Captain-General,” Hampden said.

“Ehh . . .” Essex said. He took his pipe from his mouth and waved it.

A pikeman near the Fish Yard shouted, answered by another near St Margaret’s.  Slowly, a wagon, drawn by two horses with a third hitched behind, came from around the side of the church. Hewitt took a pencil and a piece of paper from his cloak and began scribbling.

“I’ve . . .” Essex puffed. “I’ve told them in there.” He nodded toward the House of Lords. “Told them in there, I said, ‘My Lords.’ I told them, Colonel Hampden, I said to them, ‘My Lords. You have employed me about a service I am willing to undertake, and therefore I desire to know what you will please to command me.’”

They waited. Essex smoked, looking from face to face.

“My Lord?” Hampden said encouragingly.

“Well they said have a go at the King and beat him, of course,” Essex said. “What’d you think they’d say?” He laughed; it sounded like gravel shaken in a bucket. “You’re joining me, eh Hampden?”

“Yes I am, my lord.”

“Well good. And your regiment, all fitted out and whatnot?”

“Yes, my lord; near Southam yesterday, marching toward the rendezvous.”

“Grand.” He puffed. “That’s grand, quite simply.”

The wagon pulled to them. The driver wore the livery of the house of Essex. He leapt from the seat, untied the horse, and brought it to the Earl. In the wagon were several trunks, a small bale of tobacco, a number of hams and a crate of sausages, a small table, a chair, what looked to be cushions and pillows wrapped in oilcloth, and a basket of apples. There was also a coffin and a black-painted box painted on which in gilt letters was ROBT DEVERAUX 3RD EARL OF ESSEX HIS SHROUD. Essex mounted.

“Well then, Hampden,” he said. “Coming?”

“My mount’s at the Gatehouse, my lord,” Hampden said. “By your leave, I’ll join you after a word with my friends here.”

Essex squinted at Hewitt, then Sydney. “Ah. Holyfen. The master of the tulip trade and the killer of Dutchmen. I hear you actively defy the King’s customs, too. Well I’m interested in tobacco. What they charge at the shops is an outrage, say they’ve no choice because of the taxes.”

“It’s indeed an outrage, my lord,” Sydney said. “Taxes are an abomination to God.”

“How’s your father?”

“He’s . . . well, sir, I believe.”

“Good, good. Haven’t seen him since Cadiz. By God, that was a outrage; worse than taxes, a disaster. Shameful. Damned catamite Buckingham. No wonder Sir George took to drink. There but for the grace of God, we all would have gone. Well, we’ll endeavor to do better in this business. Come, Hampden. The trumpet sounds.”

He nodded to the driver, who whistled at his team. Together, at a pace almost implying the coffin was occupied and on its way to the churchyard, wagon and Essex plodded up St Margaret’s Lane.

“He’s very able,” Hampden said. “With great experience in the wars, and the heart of a lion. Sydney, I’ve something for you.”

“Anything, Colonel.”

“I will tell you — and this is not, I repeat not, for your newsbook, or whatever you call it. We are negotiating an alliance with our brothers the Scots. I wish for you to review whatever financial terms they propose and give me your honest, completely honest, assessment. There’s a delegation enroute from Edinburgh; when they arrive, you’ll sit on on the meetings, with the title of secretary to the something or other; Pym will explain, you’ll be part of his entourage.”

“Yes sir, of course. The Scots, this would mean . . .”

“It means — Hewitt, stop scribbling, please. Or affirm to me you’ll burn those notes.”

“Consider them burned, sir.”

“It means, at the very least, I think, some sort of settlement of the Church government along Presbyterian lines. There’s talk of a conference here at Westminster to hammer out a statement of faith and order. You’ll learn more when there’s more to be learned. Sydney, this is very important. Do you understand?”

His eyes were glowing, almost feverish. Sydney nodded.

Hampden let out a long, slow breath. “Very well, then. And . . . pray. Pray that we beat the King quickly. Enough to bring him to the table, to negotiate honestly.”

“Of course, Colonel,” Sydney said.

Hampden smiled, clapped him on the shoulder, turned and walked quickly after Essex. Sydney, swamped by love and pride, felt worry worming through his stomach.

“Well,” Hewitt said. “We can get a few inches out of that. Captain-General departs London with pipe and coffin. . . “

“It’s meant to show he’ll stand and do his duty unto death.”

“I know what it’s meant to show, doesn’t make it any less grim for all that. Or not much less. Well, they say the troops loved him in Germany; perhaps he’s better when standing before the ranks urging them on.”

“Yes,” Sydney said shortly. “Come. My barge is at the stairs.”

“No, wait, Sydney — wait.”

Syd looked at his brother-in-law; a frown on the fat face.

“Hampden doesn’t like the Scots business.”

“He doesn’t dislike it.”

“No, he doesn’t like it. Two different things. I am a lawyer trained a Lincoln’s Inn and I can parse words like the filthiest Jesuit. Why doesn’t he like it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you like it?”

“I don’t dislike it either.”

“My dear brother, your failure to trust me breaks my heart. Well, I don’t like it. And I’ll tell you why. Because they’re Scots. Because they’re dirty, they eat food that in England we feed to our horses, it’s a vile country, nothing but stone and water, things that grow wild here, like thistles, must be cultivated with great care in Scotland. Because the grandest vista one can observe in Scotland is the high-road to England. And because they’ve shown a distressing tendency in what passes for their history to make alliance with the enemies of England, such as France.”

Sydney laughed. “Maybe that’s it. Hampden doesn’t want to eat oats. Or be told by a Scotsman to eat oats. Nor do I.”

“Well, if the committee thinks we’ve got to make an alliance with them, maybe it’s because they’re thinking the war’s not going to be done in one battle.”

“Or they fear a landing by the French or the Spaniards. Or the Irish. You need to hedge your risks, Hewitt. Come on — let’s to my barge, and back to the City. Mr Crisp preaches tonight; I’d like to hear him.”

“Ah, indeed,” Hewitt said. “A worthy champion of Christ; I’ll come. Perhaps your sister as well.”

They crossed the yard, and down the Parliament’s stairs to the Thames landing. They boarded Sydney’s barge and sat. The bargeman pushed off, and paddled up-river, toward the City of London.

“We need,” Hewitt said, “Some happier news.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I said. Happier news. Victories and whatnot. How about your uncle in the fens? Cromwell, the bit with the plate, and the Castle and Cambridge.”

Sydney shrugged. “I thought of it. But he’s sixty men — not the sort of numbers to boast of.”

“Well, he’s doing something, which is more than you can say for those rogues in Northampton. Robbing venison from deer-parks or whatever they’re about.”

“Let’s just wait for something substantial from Essex and Hampden,” Sydney said. “Cromwell with a troop of horse, a third of them weavers and freeholders from Holyfen village. Sending a bunch of silly old dons down here in chains and raiding the Archbishop’s palace. Not the sort of news to put fear into the heart of Rupert.”

Hewitt shrugged. “I think you’re wrong, but as you wish,” he said.