‘So the preacher was right,’ Elizabeth said. ‘It is the surfeit of the few which brings poverty to the rest. The rich men enclose the land and use it for parks and for wilderness. That is why there is not enough for poor people.’

John’s face closed at once. ‘That is treason,’ he said simply. ‘It is all the king’s. He must do with it as he wishes. No-one else can come along and ask for land as if it were free. It all belongs to the king.’

‘Except for the acres which belong to the duke,’ J remarked slyly.

‘He holds it for the king, and the king holds it for God,’ Tradescant said, repeating the simple truth.

‘Then we must pray that God wants to give land to the poor,’ J said, getting up from the table and pushing his bowl irritably to one side. ‘For they cannot survive another summer of plague and failed harvest without help, and neither the king nor the duke is likely to ease their pains.’

Summer 1626

Tradescant had thought that complaints about the duke were in the mouths of ignorant men, boys like J, women like Elizabeth, and wayside preachers, whose opinions might disturb a man’s peace but would not challenge him. But then the king called Parliament to Oxford, sitting outside London to escape the plague which made the streets of the city a charnel house. The king’s debts forced him to deal with Parliament, though he suspected their loyalty and hated their self-importance.

Once they were in place they were not obliging. They refused to settle the massive bills of the court and instead the simple country squires confronted him with a long list of complaints against the duke and demanded that he be brought before a committee to be examined for his faults.

‘I can’t settle to anything, not knowing what is happening,’ John said to Elizabeth. He was working in their own garden at the little house at New Hall, planting peas in straight orderly rows. She saw that his fingers trembled slightly as he pressed each one into the earth. ‘They say they want him impeached! They say they want him tried for treason!’

‘Do you want to go to him?’ she asked, keeping her voice colourless.

John shook his head. ‘How can I? Without orders?’

‘Won’t he send for you?’

‘If I can serve him, he will send for me. But there’s no reason for him to think that I might serve him. He won’t need a gardener at Oxford!’

‘But he uses you for all sorts of work,’ Elizabeth said. ‘Dirty work,’ she thought to herself. ‘Private work,’ she said out loud.

John nodded. ‘If he sends for me I will go,’ he repeated. ‘But I may not go until he orders me.’