Thus distracted, I was cogitating over Eriugena’s treatise De divina praedestinatione when I realised that Sir Thomas had stopped speaking. His delivery was so ponderous that it was a few moments before the audience realised that he intended to say no more, but the Heer Van Langenburg sprang to his feet and led us in lengthy and completely undeserved applause for the speech of welcome.
I was just looking for the exit when Van Langenburg himself began to address those present, calling Bouwman forward to translate his Dutch into English. He gave a pretty speech, neatly glossing over the repeated wars between our two countries and reminding those present of the ready welcome that King Charles had received when he went into exile in our country.
I could not resist glancing upwards to assure myself that if the heavens opened and a celestial thunderbolt issued forth in response to this perversion of the truth, I might have a moment or two to save myself. Charles was accepted largely because he was suspicious of the French, which has always been a strong point in a man’s favour in the Low Countries, and when the time came for him to return to England he left a number of large debts, some impoverished hosts and, I dare say, a few bastards behind him. But the Heer skipped over all that, and merely said that he was optimistic that our negotiations would be fruitful as, in time, would be the match between William and Mary.
It seemed to me that we had been upwards of an hour listening to speeches, but when we left the quayside I could see that barely half that time had passed. I was just wondering what had next been arranged to delight us when my sleeve was plucked from behind and I turned to find myself looking at a clergyman; and, to judge by his dress, a very exalted one.
‘You will forgive my introducing myself in this way,’ he began. ‘My name is Compton — Henry Compton — and I am delighted to see that the Prince of Orange has included a godly minister within his embassy.’
I started to look around when it dawned on me that he meant me. ‘You are too kind, sir,’ I replied.
‘Would you prefer that we conversed in Latin?’ he asked solicitously, which led me to suppose that Bouwman had been overly kind in praising my English.
‘That might be a good idea,’ I replied, and we adopted the old tongue.
‘If your time permits,’ Compton said, ‘I should be greatly favoured if you would dine with me. I should be very pleased to hear something of the state of the church in your land. I understand that your Prince is very tolerant of Catholics. I will not hide my view that this may be a grave mistake, sir, but I fear that my own country may be taking faltering steps along the same treacherous path.’
The alert reader will recall that I confessed earlier to being a Catholic priest, so you may imagine that this turn of the discourse between us left me in some discomfort, but I judged it best not to cross this man, whoever he was. If he had been invited to greet us, he was plainly a man of standing.
It was true that William had pursued a policy of religious toleration. This may have been because he was wise, but I suspect that it had more to do with his unwillingness to lose the support of anyone. Thus Catholics in my land could worship in their own churches provided they were discreet, resorted there only for the Mass and accepted that many positions were closed to them as a result of their religion. During my life I held a number of posts that would have been stripped from me had my allegiance slipped out, not least of them my position at the University, which was very much a Reformed institution.
Compton was, I thought, only a few years older than I was, a well-built man with long light brown hair and a prominent nose. Not, of course, quite as prominent as the Stadhouder’s; though I would never have mentioned that in front of him, since William was very touchy on the subject of large noses.
I was happy to accept Compton’s invitation and promised to let him know when I had a free evening, and bowed politely as he excused himself to rejoin his party.
Van Langenburg appeared at my side. ‘That’s interesting,’ he said. ‘And what did the Bishop of London want?’
CHAPTER FOUR
I am not a man for ceremony, which may seem odd in a Catholic priest, but I mean the kind of evening to which we were now subjected.
We were conducted to our lodgings within a palace called Whitehall. We were told the King was somewhere within, but it took very little time to realise that any unplanned encounter would be very unlikely. To begin with, I never saw a grand building so badly designed. I have no doubt that at one time Whitehall was fairly proportioned and graceful, but repeated building of new walls, new windows, extensions and staircases had left it looking like it had been devised by rabbits. I left my room in search of the privy and took twenty-five minutes to find my way back, which I could not have done without the help of a passing footman.
As to my chamber, it was comfortable, and I would not have minded living there. It was not as extensive as my Leiden rooms, and there was no desk at which to work, but in compensation it was very warm and the bed was soft and well-furnished with fine curtains fringed in gold. Lest this be thought extravagant, allow me to add that they were gold in colour only, being of dyed wool, but the effect was very fine.
The itinerary prepared for us stated that we were to be conducted into the presence of His Majesty King Charles at five o’clock, after which the majority of the party would retire to enjoy a meal in one of the galleries while the King, his brother the Duke of York, and a select group of close advisers were to have a more intimate meal with the Heer Van Langenburg and a small number of his party at which some of the arrangements would be confirmed or amended. Since this meant that dinner was only a couple of hours away, I was surprised when a servant brought me a platter of meat and bread and a small barrel of wine.
‘I’ll return for the empty in the morning, sir,’ he told me. If this was what went on throughout the palace, it was no wonder that the affairs of England were so chaotically handled, for much of the government must have been in the hands of sots.
One of the great advantages of being a man of the cloth is that I never have to spend time debating what to wear on any occasion, since my black robe will always serve; indeed, if I showed up wearing anything else I should invite comment. I therefore took out a clean black gown and fixed the other on a peg to brush it, which I was doing when I was interrupted by a pretty maid who curtseyed.
‘I would do that for you, sir,’ she said, ‘or any other laundry that you might have.’
‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I’m used to doing it myself. What is your name?’
‘Why, sir, I’m Meg,’ she answered. ‘I am to serve you and the other young gentleman.’
‘The other gentleman?’
‘Him with the orange rosette on his hat, sir.’
This was a fellow by the name of Constantijn Wevers, to whom I had not long been introduced myself. I was not at all sure what mijnheer Wevers’ role in the party was, for I took him for some type of military man. He was silent and solitary, but I had noticed him gazing about himself during the welcome as if committing the docks to memory.
‘Mijnheer Wevers?’ I said.
‘If that’s him with the fine yellow hair, sir,’ said Meg. ‘I hope if you have need of a girl for any purpose during your stay you’ll think of me.’