Thomas Chaloner’s exploits in Restoration London

The first of a monthly series of posts from Susanna Gregory's creation, Thomas Chaloner, spy for the King's intelligence service.

Restoration London, January 15th

My resolution to keep a journal of daily events has not begun well.  A remark by Mr Pepys, recently appointed Clerk of the Acts to the Navy Board, whilst we shared a jug of wine in the tavern close by Axe Yard, made me realise that it is up to the ordinary citizen to truthfully record what occurs in our time.  If such matters are solely left to the denizens of the Court or of Parliament, facts will simply be skewed to paper over the cracks in their reputations, omitting events which would otherwise show how their dishonesty and incompetence blighted the lives of those they presumed to rule.  Nor, he added, should such a task be left solely to the pious social climber who would overlook the faults and foibles of those they wished to impress, and who would be dishonest with their own motivations.  I took this to be a reference to Mr Evelyn, an erudite, pleasant gentleman, but one with an irritatingly ingratiating manner.

I parted from Mr Pepys determined to take up his challenge, for such it was as he is obviously too busy with his new wife and his new job and his new house to have the time to undertake this task.  However, events at Smithfield distracted me and it is only in the new year that I feel able to settle diligently to this journal.  My friend, Leybourn, the bookseller in Monkwell Street, has provided me with a pleasingly bound volume of plain vellum.  It had been commissioned by a Captain Coomb to use as a logbook for his voyage to the new colony in Virginia, but the cover had been stained by candle-wax before he could collect it, and with the lettering on the calf-binding thoroughly spoiled the good captain refused to pay the fee and Leybourn handsomely allowed me to have it for half a guinea.

That was on January 7th, the morning after I'd attended the Lord Chancellor's Twelfth Night soirée at his house on the Strand.  He, the Earl of Clarendon, had provided raspberry ale and anchovies, which he claimed was the height of fashion in France for marking the end of the Christmas festivities.  I have never been offered either on Twelfth Night or any other occasion in France, but I held my tongue and accepted his hospitality, enduring his dry, stuffy company with as much good grace as I could muster.  After all, it would ill serve me to upset one of the few men prepared to employ an ex-Commonwealth spy in newly Royalist London.

Others among the company at Worcester House that afternoon were the Lord Chancellor's secretary John Bulteel, his degenerate cousin Sir Alan Brodrick, and a lady-in-waiting named Ruby Martin.  Although I am no expert in such matters I was taken with the notion that Ruby was in the early stages of pregnancy, a belief strengthened by the Earl's uncharacteristic flattery towards her accomplishments around the house, which made me assume he was hoping I would succumb to his account of her talents and take her as a wife and off his hands.  Unfortunately for him, but luckily for me, Ruby has her sights set a good deal higher than a lowly wage-slave, and spent most of the afternoon making eyes at Brodrick, one of the most notorious womanisers in a thoroughly debauched Court, and who is more than likely to be the father of the child, anyway.

However strained the gathering was on Twelfth Night it was a relief to see the back of the Christmas festivities and their attendant materialistic trappings.  The Puritans went too far with their banishment of even the smallest decoration or sweetmeat, but if the celebrations continue in this manner it won't be long before the whole Kingdom closes down for a fortnight and even the wealthy will be paying off debts until Michaelmas.

The weather has been cold, with the threat of snow in the air.  The fringes of the river are frozen, the ice like white lace along the banks, and the winter-bare trees are covered in frost all day.  Bulteel is sure the temperature is colder than in previous winters, which he claims is an omen of evil to come.  He is a gloomy fellow at the best of times.

The cold has been good for trade in the coffee houses where the talk is all of a new device that has just become available.  It is called a Microscope, and so many fashionable people are clamouring to buy one, particularly after the King himself acquired one, that the instrument makers have been obliged to take on new apprentices to keep up with the demand.  The Earl was one of the first to buy one.  He set it up in his White Hall office.  At first it was there for all to admire, so as to prove what an important leader of taste he is, but he has no idea how to use it, and after an embarrassing incident when Robert Hooke and other members of his society were visiting his rooms he had it placed well out of sight.

The weather has been the cause of many accidents in the streets.  Last week it took me close on two hours to travel from White Hall to the Tower, a series of collisions in Fleet Street stopping all other traffic moving in any direction.  I abandoned my carriage and started to walk, although as soon as I did the congestion cleared and the carriage went rattling past, the driver making insolent gestures at me.  This was not an isolated occasion.  It is time the Lord Mayor took action over the problem.

Later, Brodrick told me the jam made him miss a performance of Shakespeare's Love Labours Lost.  I thought this an oddly refined choice of entertainment for a man of his debauched tastes, and was not surprised to hear that he has abandoned any idea of going to another performance as the Earl has informed him the title was misleading and that there is no pornography involved.

I came across Brodrick at White Hall again yesterday, trying to look chivalrous as he leered down Ruby Martin's plump cleavage.  Even if the child is his I was unable to imagine him having the grace to make a decent woman of her, but my musings were interrupted by smoke and flames coming from Lady Castlemaine's apartments.  As the King's favourite mistress her quarters are said to be the finest in the whole Palace, full of treasures and priceless pieces of art, mainly given to her by those wishing her to use her extraordinary power at Court to grant them favours or positions.  A few of her servants tossed buckets of water at the blaze, but could not get close enough to do anything more than wet the paving stones beneath the windows while the rest of us merely gawped at the scene.  It burnt itself out quite quickly and there proved to be very little damage.  The aftermath created more fuss than the blaze as the King was angered by the lack of water for fire-fighting and issued one of his decrees:  bins of sand are to be deposited at regular intervals all over the Palace.  Everyone told him this was an excellent idea, all knowing it would be even less effective than the buckets of water.  The whole place is built of wood and roofed with thatch and any serious fire will reduce it to a small heap of ashes, but then the King does like to be thought a forward-looking monarch.

After the excitement we repaired to the Lord Chancellor's rooms, where Brodrick set about diminishing the Earl's stock of wine.  Clarendon himself drew me to one side and again tried to persuade me of Ruby's excellent potential as a wife.  It makes me wonder whether he, not his cousin, is the father.  It would surprise me, he seems too affectionate towards his wife and too fastidious to fall for Ruby's obvious charms.

It all proves that Pepys is correct in his insistence that a true account must be written and preserved.  I will continue to record such matters in this book, or ..B LOG as it says on its cover.

Copyright © Susanna Gregory 2008.

Posted 15/01/2008 12:04:40 by Thomas Chaloner with 0 comments.