Thomas smiled thinly. "What man doesn't, as each day passes? But, yes, I suppose I've aged more than I might have otherwise."
"He must be a horror of a king to serve. Craven and stupid in big things; petty, spiteful and stubborn in small ones. No, you needn't respond to that. I hope your wife and children are well."
"Yes, quite well." Wentworth nodded toward the west. "They're living here now, in fact. There's disease in the city—not quite an epidemic, but too close for my comfort—and I thought they'd be safest here."
Cromwell's smile was thin, but not unkind. "You too, eh? Well, you're right. I have an American visit me from time to time, cleansing my cell of pests. 'Fumigating,' he calls it, which seems to be the word they use for killing pests you can't see."
He glanced at the pallet. "Barely an occasional bedbug, any more. Mind you, it's a bit of a mixed blessing, since the same man who sees to my bodily health hates me with a passion, and spends all his time here leveling curses upon me."
Wentworth frowned. "Why?"
"He's of Irish stock. And it seems—in that other universe, you know—that I butchered half the world's Irishmen. So he says, at any rate. I can't really see why I'd bother, myself."
"Neither can I. Beat them about a bit—which is not hard, since you can always find one Irish clan chief who'll beat another for you, at a small price—and they're manageable enough."
Now that he thought upon the matter, Wentworth did remember that among the many things he'd read about Cromwell in the American books that had made their way to England—copies of them, usually—he'd read something about Cromwell's ferocious reputation among the Irish. But he couldn't remember the details, since he hadn't cared about that.
A thought came to him. "Does he speak of me, at all? If I recall correctly, in that other universe I served for years as the Lord Deputy of Ireland, instead of being summoned back almost immediately to London."
Oliver's smile wasn't thin at all, now. "Oh, yes. 'Bloody Tom Tyrant,' you are. Or were, I suppose I should say. The grammar's tricky, dealing with that business. Quite a notorious fellow, it seems, in the Irish scheme of things."
Wentworth returned the smile. "Well. That's a cheery thought."
Cromwell cocked his head slightly. "Why did you come, Thomas?"
Wentworth had his dignity also. He'd lie, readily enough, for purposes of state. But not here, not to this man. "I don't really know, Oliver, to be honest. I just felt an urge to see you again."
There was silence for a moment, as both men remembered a time years earlier when they'd served together as young members of Parliament. They'd been on quite good terms, then.
"But there's really nothing much to say, is there?" said Oliver Cromwell.
Thomas Wentworth—the earl of Strafford, now—canted his head in agreement. "No. There really isn't. Goodbye, Oliver."
He left, and Cromwell went back to his perusal of the Bible.
* * *
"Fucking bastard," muttered Darryl McCarthy, as he watched the earl of Strafford passing below the windows in St. Thomas' Tower, on his way to the outer gate of the fortress. "Bloody Tom Tyrant."
But there wasn't any heat to the words. In fact, Tom Simpson could barely hear them at all, even standing at the window right next to Darryl. They didn't really sound so much like a curse, as a simple mantra a stalwart Irish-American lad might speak aloud. As he steeled himself for a moment of great spiritual crisis and peril.
"Yeah, there it is, Tom. I've thought about it until my brain's just spinning in circles. No way around it. I am well and truly screwed, blued and royally tattooed."
"That bad, huh?"
"Yeah. Maybe if Harry Lefferts was here—bracing me, so to speak—but—"
"It's not really the end of the world, y'know? Hell, I did it myself."
Darryl gave him a glance that was none too friendly. "Yeah. So? You ain't no hillbilly."
"Oh, come off it, Darryl. Even hillbillies do it, more often than not. Can't be more than twenty percent of you that are outright bastards. Legally speaking, I mean. Figuratively, of course, the percentage rises a lot."
"Fucking rich kid."
Tom chuckled. "Poor old Doug MacArthur's got to be spinning in his grave, right now."
"Huh? What's that supposed to mean?"
"Never mind. You sure about this?"
"Well." Darryl took a deep breath. "Well." Another deep breath. "Yeah."
"I mean, really sure? As in: steps will now be taken. You've been making people kind of nervous, you know."