The Amorous Nightingale

    'For so short a journey? A needless indulgence.'

    'Indulgence is a mark of good character.'

    'And bad housekeeping,' argued Christopher. 'Why spend money on the unnecessary when it might be saved for the truly essential?'

    'Cutting a dash is truly essential.'

    'We must agree to differ on that, Henry. As on so many other things.' A thought struck him. 'By the way, you have not told me the name of the play we are about to see.'

    'It is irrelevant.'

    'Does it have no title?'

    'Who cares?'

    'I do,' said Christopher seriously.

    'Forget the play,' decreed Henry with a lordly gesture of his hand. 'Remember that you are not going to the theatre to watch a troupe of mangy actors, practising their craft. You are there to ensnare Jasper Hartwell in order to part the fool from as much of his undeserved wealth as you can. As for me,' he said, revelling in the attention he was getting from passers-by, 'I never visit a theatre for the purpose of seeing. I am there simply to be seen.'

    The two brothers moved on, linked by ties of blood but separated by almost everything else, walking side by side towards a critical meeting with a potential client, mixing hope with enjoyment, ambition with display, sensitivity with arrogance, serenely unaware of the perils that lay in wait for them at The Theatre Royal.

Chapter Two

    Jonathan Bale looked up at the house and emitted a reverential sigh.

    'There it is,' he said, pointing a finger. 'Study it well, boys.'

    'Why?' asked Oliver.

    'Because this is where he once lived. Over twenty years ago, the Lord Protector, as he became, moved from Long Acre to Drury Lane and made his home right here. He sent for his family to join him from Ely. Think on that, Oliver,' he said, with a hand on his son's shoulder. 'The man whose name you bear graced this house with his presence.'

    'Was he a good man, Father?'

    'A great one.'

    'Then why didn't he become King?'

    'He did. In all but name.'

    'But we have a real King now.'

    Jonathan pursed his lips and nodded sadly.

    'What about me, Father?' piped up Richard Bale, the younger of the two brothers. 'You told me that I was named after a Cromwell.'

    'You were,' explained his father. 'You were so christened because the Lord Protector's son was called Richard. When his father died, he inherited his title and his power.'

    'Was he as great a man as his father?' wondered Richard.

    'Alas, no.'

    'Nobody was as great as Oliver Cromwell,' boasted the older boy. 'That's why I carry his name. I mean to be great myself.'

    'You already are,' teased Richard. 'A great fool.'

    Oliver bridled. 'Who are you calling a fool?'

    'Nobody,' said Jonathan firmly, quelling the argument before it could even begin. 'Now, look at the house and remember the man who once owned it. We must keep his memory bright in our hearts. England owes so much to him. He is sorely missed.'

    'What about his son, Richard?' said his namesake.

    'Well, yes…' Jonathan tried to keep disappointment out of his voice. 'Richard Cromwell is missed, too, but in a different way. His achievements fell short of his father's. That was only to be expected.'

    'Where is he now, Father?'

    'Somewhere in France.'

    'Why?'

    'Richard Cromwell is in exile.'

    'What does that mean?'

    'He is not allowed to live in this country.'

    'But you said that he was Lord Protector.'

    'For a time.'

    'What happened?'

    Jonathan shrugged. 'That's a long story,' he said softly. 'When you are old enough to understand it, I'll tell it to you.'

    'I understand it,' asserted Oliver, inflating his little chest. 'It's quite simple. Oliver Cromwell was famous, which is why I was christened after him. His son was hopeless so Richard was the right name for you.'

    'That's not true!' protested his brother.

    'It certainly isn't,' confirmed Jonathan.

    'They called him Tumbledown Dick,' said Oliver, grinning wickedly at his sibling. 'That's how useless he was. Just like you, Richard. You're Tumbledown Dick Bale!'

    'No!' wailed Richard.

    'That's enough!' said Jonathan sternly. 'There'll be no mockery of the Cromwell family. Both of you should be justly proud of the names you bear.' He shook Oliver hard. 'Don't ever let me hear you making fun of your brother again. You'll answer to me, if you do.'

    The boy nodded penitently. 'Yes, Father.'

    'There is no shame in being called after Richard Cromwell.'

    'Why didn't he become King?' asked the younger boy.

    Jonathan let the question hang in the air. Directing the gaze of both sons to the house once more, he reflected on the changes that had occurred during their short lifetimes. Oliver was almost ten now, born and baptised when the Lord Protector was still alive. Richard was three years younger, named after a man whose own rule was brief, inglorious and mired in controversy. Both sons had grown up under a restored monarch, Charles II, a King who showed all the arrogance of the Stuart dynasty and who, in Jonathan's opinion, had devalued the whole concept of royalty by his scandalous behaviour. A devout Puritan like Jonathan Bale was bound to wonder if the plague, decimating the population of London, and the subsequent fire, destroying most of the buildings within the city walls, had been visited on the capital by a God who was appalled at the corruption and depravity that were the distinctive hallmarks of the Restoration.

    The three of them were returning home after a long walk. Now in his late thirties, Jonathan was a big, solid man with a prominent nose acting as a focal point in a large face. The two warts on his cheek and the livid scar across his forehead gave him a slightly sinister appearance, but his children loved him devotedly and thought their father the most handsome of men. Long years as a shipwright had developed his muscles and broadened his back, visible assets in his role as a parish constable. Only the bold or the very foolish made the mistake of taking on Jonathan Bale in any form of combat.

    He loomed over the two boys like a galleon between two rowing boats. Proud of his sons, he was keen to acquaint them with the history of their city and the significance of their names. The fashionable house outside which the trio were standing was at the Holborn end of Drury Lane, a respectable, residential neighbourhood with an abundance of flowers and trees to please the eye and to reinforce the sense of leisured wealth. The area