‘You don’t like our beer?’ said a big, bluff Englishman opposite him.
‘No, sir,’ said Wevers, ‘I don’t like anyone’s beer.’
‘Wine, then?’
‘Forgive me, but I drink sparingly. It doesn’t agree with me.’
The concept of moderation seems not to have taken hold in England, but our hosts appeared to assume Wevers suffered from some constitutional weakness and took no offence at his eccentricity. I wondered briefly whether the raven-haired Meg had offered herself to him yet and whether his abstemiousness ran in that direction too. I suspected it might. Wevers had the look of a man with a mission who was determined to keep his guard up until it was accomplished.
There being no ladies present that evening, the party continued well into the night and I finally flopped into bed between two and three in the morning. I was not drunk, merely desperately tired, but protocol dictated that we could not retire until the King did so, and he showed every evidence of being committed to a long drinking session until that fellow Pepys informed him that Moll Davis was returned from the theatre and waiting in his chamber, at which point Charles rose from his chair, bowed solemnly to us and raced for the door as fast as his long legs would carry him. I caught a glimpse of his younger brother James, whose face was twisted with disgust. Whatever the outward appearance, I was sure that those two lacked much fraternal feeling.
Van Langenburg suggested that the two parties should breakfast informally on the next morning — by which he really meant separately — to which our hosts were only too happy to agree.
CHAPTER FIVE
I woke early and passed a pleasant hour forgetting all about our mission, immersed in a good book. In tribute to our hosts, I had brought a copy of Scala Perfectionis by the Englishman Walter Hilton, who lived nearly three hundred years earlier, and was a little ruffled when I was called to set it aside and come downstairs to breakfast. It did not take me long to see that there was a heated discussion going on between Van Langenburg and a man called Vlisser. I don’t think I’ve mentioned him before, so this may be the time to introduce him.
Vlisser was an Amsterdam merchant, somehow important in the East India Company, and reputed to be one of the richest men in our country (and therefore the world). Vlisser was no fool when it came to money, and his job was to squeeze the English for a good dowry, managing the discreet sale of anything that could be converted quickly to ready cash. William was not an avaricious man, but like many who have been brought up short of money, he was determined not to be in that position again.
Since I dislike confrontation, I paused before entering the room when I heard the raised voices. As is often the case, people who are arguing think that they have dropped their voices sufficiently to keep the dispute private, even when they can be clearly heard in the street outside. I did not deliberately eavesdrop, but I could not help overhearing the point at issue.
They were clearly talking about an Englishman to whom they had been making regular payments. Van Langenburg was arguing that they should continue this practice to ensure the success of their mission, whereas Vlisser disagreed.
‘If he is going to be paid anyway, what reason does he have to conclude the matter quickly — or, indeed, at all?’ Vlisser demanded.
‘But if we stop the payments he may withdraw his support, and who knows whether we can bring this match about without him?’
‘Surely the advantages of the marriage are self-evident. It is in his own interest to promote it.’
‘But does he see that?’ Van Langenburg countered.
‘You’re the Ambassador,’ Vlisser remarked. ‘You’ll have to speak to him privately. Tell him there’ll be no more retainers, just a lump sum when the marriage is completed.’
‘I don’t have the authority for that.’
‘The payments are already in place, aren’t they? Just tell him from now on we’re holding them in trust, and he’ll receive them when Mary is married to William. You don’t need any permission for that.’
Van Langenburg did not reply, so I took that as my cue to enter and bid them a cheery good morning. I received two grunts in answer.
I sat at the table and helped myself to some warm bread and small beer. I suppose it was none of my business, but I could not help wondering about whom they had been speaking.
King Charles was allegedly fully occupied that morning, though one of the servants informed me that His Majesty and mornings did not mix well, and he usually lay abed until noon recovering from the evening before.
His brother James was up and about, but closeted with that man Pepys, discussing some pressing matter affecting the navy, of which James had previously been some kind of admiral. Although debarred now that he was a Roman Catholic, he retained a keen interest and Pepys made it his business to ensure that James was kept fully informed on naval matters. Prince Rupert, the King’s cousin, was now head of the navy, but since he had been heavily involved in the recent war against us it had been deemed politic to send him on a tour of ports on the south coast which would last exactly as long as we were in London.
Having no prospect of any useful activity that morning, we determined upon making a tour of the city. Van Langenburg excused himself, saying that he had letters to write, but the rest of us strolled out of Whitehall Palace and went to gawp at the buildings there.
It would be churlish not to admit that London is a very fair city; and even then, with much of the rebuilding not yet completed, there were some remarkable edifices and some particularly fine churches. These were, of course, wasted upon the English, who are an irreligious people, but we paused to marvel at the Cathedral of St Paul, which will be a grand and elegant affair, if it is ever finished. We met Sir Christopher Wren, who is charged with the construction of it, who told us that it will eventually require upwards of a million pounds for its completion. For a moment I thought Vlisser was about to offer to do the work at a cut rate, but he held his peace.
We left the Cathedral to return to Whitehall for our dinner, and were walking along Fleet Street when there was a sudden rumpus. There were some stalls along the side of the road, and we had separated into smaller groups to look at the wares on sale. My eye was drawn to a bookseller’s, and I was about to propose a diversion when two men grabbed Preuveneers and cried out that he was a thief, demanding that someone send for the watch. The old man appeared dumbfounded and protested volubly in Dutch that he had done nothing and was being molested without cause, but the men refused to let him go until the watch had him in charge.
In a few minutes, a sergeant and two constables arrived and appeared intent on taking him before the magistrates without delay, while the stallkeeper demanded that the thief’s hand should be cut off. Judging by Preuveneers’ reaction, he must have had a better knowledge of English than I had given him credit for.
Now, I will confess that I had done nothing to assist him at this point, largely because I could not think of anything useful to do, but Wevers took command, calling Bouwman to him to translate.
‘If this man is a thief,’ he said, ‘where is your proof? What has he stolen?’
‘He is a thieving foreigner,’ the stallkeeper explained, with rather more emphasis on the noun than on the adjective.