It was undoubtedly this terror that drove what happened next. It was late in July. Lucy and Jamie were working the press, printing John Lilburne’s latest missive, when Ned suddenly appeared in the doorway, flustered and worried. ‘Jamie,’ he panted, ‘have you seen John Wildman?’
Jamie stopped, his bad hand resting on the handle of the press. ‘Not this week. I think he’s still with the Army.’ Wildman was always shuttling back and forth between the Army and Westminster: he was a messenger trusted by both the Council of the Army and by the Independents in Parliament.
Ned shook his head. ‘He arrived in London yesterday and stabled his horse with us. I fear he’s at Westminster.’
‘What’s amiss at Westminster?’ asked Jamie in alarm.
It seemed that there was a mob there. Ned wasn’t certain who it was composed of, but Reformadoes had been mentioned. The Committee of Safety’s forces had been dismissed when the committee itself was disbanded, but the dismissed soldiers had not left London. They could be seen everywhere around the city, angry, resentful and not infrequently drunk. ‘What I heard,’ Ned said grimly, ‘is that they mean to force Parliament to re-form the Committee of Safety. I pray to God that the captain isn’t there – or that if he is, he can keep his business quiet!’
Jamie let go of the press and swore. ‘I’ll go and look for him.’ He marched over to the basin of dirty water they kept to rinse off the worst of the ink.
‘Nay!’ cried Lucy in alarm.
He paused, smiling at her. ‘What, you’re afraid for me? I’ll be in no danger.’ He swept his bad hand up and down, indicating his thin, scarred frame. ‘I’m villainous enough they’ll think me one of their own.’
‘But how will you even find him?’ asked Lucy. In her mind’s eye a mob of Richard Symondses besieged Westminster.
‘There are two or three places I might look for him,’ replied Jamie. ‘It might help him to have someone to back up his account of himself, or guard his back.’
‘I’ll go with you,’ offered Ned.
‘Nay, you go back to your tavern,’ replied Jamie.
‘I’m a sergeant in the trained bands!’ Ned objected. His voice had an edge that surprised Lucy.
It surprised Jamie, too, and he gave Ned a quizzical look. ‘I meant no slight to your courage, friend! You know very well that all of us rely on The Whalebone as a place to meet. If you are long gone from it, messages may go astray and plans miscarry.’
Ned grimaced, then nodded. Jamie rinsed his hands, buckled on his sword and set off.
Ned watched him go, then looked at Lucy. ‘Come back to The Whalebone with me,’ he suggested. ‘Whatever the news, we’ll get it quickly there – and you know you won’t get much printing done alone.’
‘I must clean the type and lock up first,’ she told him, ‘but I’ll come join you then, and thank you.’
As she cleaned up, Lucy felt strangely empty. She kept thinking of Jamie, tracing his route in her mind: now he would be on London Wall; now he had come to Smithfield; now he was on Fleet Street; now the Strand. She wished she had offered to go with him – which was stupid. What did she expect to do in a mob of Reformadoes? She would have been not a help but a hindrance: a vulnerable, frightened girl whom Jamie would be obliged to protect. If she had offered to go with him, he would certainly have been sensible enough to refuse to take her.
She wished, nonetheless, that she was with him.
With Jamie Hudson? she asked herself incredulously. That scarred, hulking swill-pot? To be fair, he wasn’t drinking heavily any more – but still, he was a man without a trade or prospects, and hideous to boot.
She locked up and started off to The Whalebone, vexed with Jamie and with herself. The streets were quiet, but the tavern, when she arrived at it, was packed: the clientele had filled both the common rooms and spilled out into the yard. She waved at several people she knew, then pressed on inside to greet Ned.
He was in a huddle with William Walwyn and the soldier Edward Sexby, who was one of the Army Agitators. They all glanced up when Lucy appeared, and Sexby smiled. ‘Mistress Wentnor, well met! Thomas Stevens of Southwark is your uncle, is he not?’
‘Aye,’ she said, taken aback.
Sexby shot a significant look at the other men.
‘It’s too soon!’ protested Walwyn unhappily. ‘We know not yet how Parliament will answer!’
Sexby spat. ‘It will answer, “Aye, gladly!” like a whore offered gold. But I do not say that we must act now, William – only that we must be ready to act if needs be. Mistress Wentnor, will you take me to your uncle’s house? I need to speak to him, and I don’t know my way about Southwark.’
Lucy looked at Walwyn, who seemed worried; Ned, in contrast, was excited. With some misgiving, she agreed to take Sexby to Southwark. As they started off along Coleman Street, she asked, ‘Sir, what’s your business with my uncle?’
Sexby gave her a bright smile and a wink. He was a dashing, vigorous man of about thirty, and, like Ned, much inclined to flirt. ‘Why, only to ask him how things stand in Southwark, sweet!’
She took several steps. ‘You think Parliament will agree to reinstate the Committee of Safety and re-enlist the Reformadoes. The Army won’t endure it and will march on London. From Reading it will naturally come first to Southwark.’
He grinned wolfishly. ‘Army headquarters are in Bedford now, sweet, not Reading! Lord General Fairfax thought our struggle was done and won, and so we all stood down. Old Noll Cromwell, too: he said that anything we got by force, he looked upon it as nothing, and therefore we ought not march on London – which, I have no shame in telling you, some of us were ready to do days ago, and if we had, we would have saved ourselves time and trouble! Your uncle fought in the Southwark militia, did he not?’
‘Aye,’ said Lucy wretchedly. So: the Army would march, and the Committee of Safety would assemble the Reformadoes and as much of the militias as it could coax or threaten to its aid, and there would be bloodshed. How could men be so rash and wicked as to let it go so far again?
‘Never fear!’ Sexby told her confidently. ‘The trained bands won’t shed blood to keep their masters in the saddle, and the fat aldermen of the City have no stomach to fight on their own. It will pass over peacefully, you’ll see.’
‘That’s what you’ve been saying since the mutiny started,’ Lucy pointed out.
‘Aye, and it was true then, too, only some in Parliament don’t credit it.’
‘The Reformadoes don’t seem to credit it, either.’
Sexby gave a snort of contempt. ‘I wonder why that is?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Sweet, the Committee of Safety consisted of Denzil Holles and Philip Massey and the like – men who love power, and men who, moreover, have been impeached for misconduct and have good cause to fear what will become of them once they step down. If they’ve not been whispering promises into some ugly ears to whip this trouble up, then my right hand never held a sword. Never fear: the Reformadoes will soon discover that it takes more than eleven members to sustain a war.’ He slapped the hilt of his sword.
She winced, remembering a phrase from a sermon she’d once heard: ‘The sword has two edges, but never an eye.’ Sexby might be talking sense, but good sense vanished as soon as swords were drawn. She wondered if he was right that the eleven impeached members had whipped up the trouble simply to keep themselves in power.
Sexby smiled at her, as cheerful as Cousin Geoffrey’s servant offering bloody murder in a play. ‘Soon you’ll be printing copies of our new settlement, telling all the people of their liberty!’
‘God send it!’ she said fervently. ‘And God send that it passes over peacefully, as you say. Sir, do you know what’s happening in Westminster? Were you there this morning?’
He shook his head. ‘I meant to go this morning by water, on business of the Army, but when I got to Billingsgate Stairs there were no boats, and a fishwife told me that all the watermen had gone to Westminster
to tell Parliament to bring the king to London.’
‘The king?’ asked Lucy. It was the first she’d heard of that.
‘Aye. The poor fools think that once Charles Stuart is back upon the throne, all will miraculously be well again – as though our troubles began with somebody else! As for our enemies, they think that if they have him in their hands, they can make their own settlement and cut us out – and they’re as great fools as the watermen, for King Charles has never failed to ruin those who trust him.’
She blinked, again surprised. ‘But he’s on the point of settling with us!’
Sexby spat. ‘The grand officers of the Army think so, but I say they’re deluded! He treats all our people with contempt, and he’s fishing for a better bargain with the Scots. Had you not heard that? The Scots commissioner has called upon him, time and again, and our Grandees are so eager to please him they permit the meetings to go unsupervised. For my part, I’d be rid of him: let him bargain with the Devil in Hell! But others have determined otherwise.’ He spat again, then looked back at her with a smirk. ‘Enough of him! Tell me true: how did Thomas Stevens get himself such a pretty niece?’
‘Through having a sister,’ Lucy replied shortly and moved a step away. ‘So you don’t know what’s happening in Westminster?’
‘Only what I heard at The Whalebone.’
‘Which is? You took me away, sir, before I had any chance to hear the news there.’
Sexby swept a bow. ‘My apologies, sweet mistress! There is a mob gathered at Westminster—’
‘The Reformadoes?’
‘Aye. Them, the watermen and those City apprentices who caused so much havoc earlier this month. The Reformadoes want their pay, but, knowing no other way to get it, and, as I believe, encouraged by our enemies, they demand that Parliament reinstate the Committee of Safety. It’s an angry business. The mob has beaten certain men of the Army whom they found there, and led them about by the nose; they have already compelled the Lords to pass an ordinance according to their will, and now they stand on the threshold of the House of Commons shouting, “Vote! Vote!” and permitting no one to go in or out. The House cries, “Alack the day!” and sends messengers to Common Council, asking the City to restore order, but Common Council is in no haste to answer.’
She shivered. ‘Jamie Hudson went to look for Captain Wildman at Westminster.’
He was silent for a minute. ‘That I did not know. Still, John Wildman’s no fool: I have no doubt that he’ll put his tongue to good use and ’scape danger.’
‘And Jamie?’
He gave her a sharp look. ‘You’re afraid for him?’
She felt her face heat. ‘He is my assistant, and . . . and a friend.’
‘He is a very brave and honest man,’ said Sexby, ‘and no fool, no more than John Wildman. I have no doubt you’ll see them both presently, back at The Whalebone with tankards of Ned’s good beer in their hands.’
‘God send it!’ she whispered again, and Sexby smiled.
She showed him the way to Uncle Thomas’s shop and introduced them. Thomas was nervous and grew still more nervous when Sexby began asking about the Southwark militia, but she left them there talking and hurried back to The Whalebone.
When she arrived there she found Jamie and Wildman in the yard with tankards in their hands, exactly as Sexby had predicted.
She stopped short, gazing at Jamie with eyes that stung. He was sitting on the cobblestones, leaning against the wall of the tavern and listening to Wildman, who was on his feet recounting something or other. His face was turned towards his captain, and all she could see was the tip of his nose and the dirty hair hanging below the wide brim of his hat – and yet she had no difficulty in recognizing him. The slouching shape of him was intimately familiar and fitted exactly some empty spot within her heart.
Jamie Hudson! she thought in despair. Of all people to fall in love with! Why? An ugly, hulking, slow-speaking, awkward ex-blacksmith ex-soldier from Lincolnshire! What on earth was she thinking of? She’d dodged aside from Ned – a far better match! – the moment she realized he was interested. Jamie would be a disaster. Their joint earnings wouldn’t even be enough to pay the rent.
She would simply keep her feelings to herself until they passed. She took a deep breath, then marched over. Jamie looked up as she approached and smiled his slow, twisted half-smile. ‘So there you are!’ she said briskly.
‘Aye.’
‘And Captain Wildman, too!’
The captain stopped speaking and looked at her questioningly.
‘I’m pleased to see you well, sir,’ she said politely. ‘We were worried for you.’
‘So Jamie told me,’ said Wildman. ‘I was in no danger. I managed to slip out before they closed off the House. Jamie met me by Westminster Stairs and vouched for me to the watermen keeping watch there.’ He grinned. ‘It never occurred to them to ask who had vouched for him! It is a sad spectacle, though, to see the Mother of Parliaments besieged.’ He began speaking again, telling his audience about a fellow-officer’s servant who’d been beaten by the mob.
Jamie was still smiling at her, as though he knew what she was feeling. She reminded herself that he couldn’t: he was simply pleased to see her. ‘Since you’ve found Captain Wildman safe and well,’ she said sharply, ‘we should go back to work. If the Committee of Safety’s back in the saddle, there’ll be more need of our services than ever.’
‘Aye,’ he agreed and got up.
Eight
The House of Commons did indeed yield to the mob – though not, as Sexby had contemptuously said, as eagerly as a whore offered gold. The members were outraged by the disorder, and the House held out at Westminster all that long July day, capitulating and reinstating the Committee of Safety only at about eight o’clock that evening, and only after the rioters had actually invaded the House and threatened the members. The Independent members were so shaken that they fled from London before the next session.
The result, though, was to leave the Presbyterian majority in complete control of London. The Committee of Safety resumed its place in the Guildhall and at once re-enlisted the Reformadoes who’d put it there. It sent out a summons to the militia, ordering the men to muster on pain of death.
The day after the order went out, Lucy arrived at the barn to find Ned in the loft beside Jamie.
‘A lieutenant of my company sent a warning,’ Ned explained grimly. ‘He said they were coming to arrest me as a ringleader of a mutiny.’
‘Of course they were,’ said Jamie placidly. ‘How many other sergeants distribute pamphlets urging their men not to fight?’
Ned gave a snort. ‘I dare not go home now until this is over with. Can you use another hand with the press, Lucy?’
She left the men printing and went out to buy food: with Ned in hiding there would be no dinner at The Whalebone and they would need supplies.
Half the shops were closed, and there were Reformadoes on every other corner. They were full of swagger and bluster, and Lucy was stopped twice – as far as she could tell, for no other reason than that she was a pretty girl. She gave sharp answers to their questions as to who she was and where she was going, slapped a groping hand and screamed loudly when its owner seemed inclined to slap back: she got away shaken but unscathed. She resolved, though, to return to Southwark early and keep to the main roads. She did not want to meet any Reformadoes after dark or in a deserted alleyway.
Next morning there were soldiers on the Southwark side of London Bridge, watching the crowds come and go. They had a prisoner – a young man in a dark coat, who sat in the mud of the street, his hands tied behind his back, his face bloody. Lucy wondered if he was a deserter from the militia. When the soldiers noticed her looking at him they leered at her, and one advanced; she ducked away and hurried on, head down.
There were more soldiers, and several more prisoners, at the other end of the bridge. Yes, definitely deserters from the militia: they were all young men and, by their dress, like
ly to be freeholders, neither rich nor poor. It suddenly seemed so strange that you could take a man prisoner and beat him, and afterwards expect him to fight for you rather than against you – but she supposed that showed her lack of understanding. During the war most of the soldiers, on both sides, had entered their respective armies through the press gang.
She stopped at The Whalebone on her way to work, so that she could give Ned news of how his people were. Rather to her surprise she found the tavern open, but when she came in she saw why: there was a knot of Reformadoes sitting in the common room. Nancy was serving them beer; she came over, looking frightened. ‘If you’ve come to see Ned Trebet,’ she said loudly, ‘he’s not here, and I know not where he is!’
Lucy thanked her humbly and went out again. A block down the road, however, she realized she was being followed.
She turned as though to cross the street: pausing to watch for traffic gave her an excuse to get a good look at the men. Reformadoes, undoubtedly: they were armed with sword and pistol and each had a red ribbon tied about his right arm, the just-adopted token of the Committee of Safety. There were two of them. She recognized one from The Whalebone – that scar across the chin had been unmissable, even in the dimly lit tavern – so that probably meant they’d both been there, waiting for someone to ask for Ned. They were talking to one another, but from the angle of their heads she suspected they were watching her. She crossed the street; when she glanced back a dozen steps later, she saw that they had, too.
Her heart sped up. She stopped, then turned around and started back the way she’d come. The two soldiers hesitated, then stood where they were and waited for her.
She crossed the road again. So did they, and advanced to block her path. ‘Where are you bound to, pretty?’ asked the older one.
She glanced up at him fiercely. ‘Sir, I do not know you.’
He smirked. ‘I think I know you, though, puss! Let’s see those pretty hands.’
London in Chains Page 14