The Baltic War(50)

"He did, for a time. But there is a lot of disease in the city, since we brought over so many mercenary soldiers from the continent. It flares up constantly, you know. And the queen—"



Again, he left the rest unsaid. And if the king's a fool, half the time, his wife is an hysteric three-fourths of the time . . .



Would be even more unseemly, said aloud. Even to his wife. Even in private. Even given that it was true.



Elizabeth shook her head. "Why don't His Majesty and the queen come to reside here at the Tower, then? You were quite right, you know, I've become convinced of it. Since you allowed the Americans held pris—ah, staying in St. Thomas' Tower—to oversee the castle's sanitary and medical affairs, there's been very little disease of any sort here. And that, almost all children."



Wentworth sighed. "I tried, Elizabeth. I pointed out that within a week I could have Wakefield Tower completely refurbished as a royal residence. It was used as such by Henry III, after all. But the king refused. He said it would seem as if he were afraid of the city's unsteady population."



Which he is, the earl left unsaid also, despite the fact that the new mercenary companies have a firm grip on London.



Daughter of a country squire she might be, but Elizabeth was not dull-witted. Her mouth twisted into something halfway to a derisive sneer. "And racing off to Oxford wouldn't?"



Wentworth rolled his eyes. "Exactly what I said to him. But—ah, come, dearest, let's not squabble. It's the way it must be."



"Of course, husband. Whatever you say."





Once outside the Lieutenant's Lodging, Thomas headed for the gate next to Wakefield Tower that gave onto the Outer Ward and, from there, the gate at Byward Tower that allowed egress from the fortress entirely. But he paused, for a time, realizing that he hadn't spoken to Oliver Cromwell in weeks. Had rarely even thought about him, in fact. As the months passed with no incidents since Oliver's arrest, Thomas had come to the conclusion that while he still thought it would be wiser to have Oliver executed, there was really no pressing need to do so. And . . .



He liked the man, when all was said and done.



"Oh, why not?" he murmured to himself. Even in London in midwinter, he still had plenty of daylight left to reach Whitehall. And it was an unseasonably warm and sunny day, to begin with.





There were Warders standing guard at this door, of course. The only door to the dungeons of which that was true, in the whole castle.



Only two of them, however, not four. Oliver Cromwell was not an ogre, after all. Even if, in another universe, he'd overthrown the English monarchy, executed the king, and set himself as what amounted to a dictator under the benign title "Lord Protector."



Not a particularly brutal or capricious dictator, granted, judging from the up-timers' history books. But a dictator nonetheless; certainly a regicide.



After the Warders unlocked the bolts and chains and let him in—which they had to do twice; once at the entrance and once at the actual dungeon—Thomas found himself in the same small cell he remembered from his early visits. But it was much cleaner, and while it was still definitely a dungeon it was no longer a place of sheer misery and squalor.



Oliver even had a small table now, with a chair, along with his sleeping pallet. Unwise, that, looked at from a certain viewpoint. A desperate prisoner could provide himself with a club by dismantling either piece of furniture. Quite easily, in fact, as rickety as they looked to be.



Wentworth decided the judgment of the Warders was sound enough, in this case. Oliver was rather well-built, true enough, but he was no giant. Against two trained Warders equipped with bladed weapons, he'd have no chance at all armed with a mere club.



Probably more important was simply the man's temperament. There was an innate sureness to Oliver Cromwell—the term "dignity" came to Thomas, and he couldn't deny it—which would not allow him to ever descend that far into despair. Did the worst come, and he be summoned to lose his head, Oliver would not put up a pointless and futile struggle, like a common criminal might do. He'd simply march to the execution ground with no resistance. He'd sneer when the sentence was pronounced, spit on the ground at the king's name, kneel calmly to lay his neck upon the block—and tell the headsman, jokingly, not to fumble the business.



Cromwell had set aside the book he was reading before Thomas entered. He'd heard them coming, of course, for well over a minute.



It was the Bible, Wentworth saw. "Which book?" he asked.



"The Lamentations of Jeremiah, at the moment. You're looking well, Thomas. But you've aged, I think."