London in Chains

by Gillian Bradshaw

  The barn looked extraordinarily desolate. The press had gone, and all the drying lines; even the loose scraps of paper she’d wedged between the cases of type and the wall had been carefully removed. She couldn’t bring herself to disturb the heavy silence by calling Jamie’s name. She climbed up to the loft where he slept, but the straw was trampled flat and it was immediately apparent that there was no one there.

  She looked around wretchedly, wondering where he was, hoping he was safe and well, fearing that he was drunk in some churchyard or ditch. She should have gone to look for him the day after he agreed to speak to Captain Wildman, just to make sure he’d done it – but she hadn’t, and then she’d started her work, and . . .

  She noticed something carved on a beam where Jamie used to sleep. She went over and crouched down to look: it was her name, LUCY, written over and over again, the letters carved deep into the wood.

  She stared a moment, then traced the letters with a trembling finger. They were low on the beam; they must have been obscured before by the heaped straw and by Jamie’s own recumbent form. She imagined him lying where she now crouched, propped up on his right elbow, etching her name before he slept.

  She laid her palm flat against the wood. Her throat ached painfully. She suddenly understood why Nancy had said, ‘You don’t love him, then?’ when Lucy admitted warning Ned about the dowry. If she had loved him, the need to have him in her arms would have dragged that warning into silence; it would have emerged late if it emerged at all.

  She stood, climbed back down the ladder and trudged back into the City, wondering wretchedly what she was to do. Jamie was God-knew-where doing God-knew-what. Oh, she was sure she could find out what had become of him, but what she could do about it was another matter. He had left her no word to say where he was going. Had he concluded, as she had, that they had no possible future together? As a journeyman blacksmith he would be able to support himself, but supporting a wife was another matter – and four shillings a week might be a grand sum for a single woman living with her uncle but it wasn’t enough to set up a household.

  To marry in poverty, to bear children in squalor, to struggle to feed and clothe them, to watch them die of cold and disease as you failed – it was a wretched lot. She should put Jamie from her mind . . . but, surely, she could do so after she’d found out what had become of him?

  She arrived at Bourne’s printshop to find Gilbert Mabbot there, sitting at her composing table and writing something. When she came in he looked up with a grin. ‘Ah, Mistress Wentnor! Well met! I need to discuss some business with you, but I won’t keep you from your work. Meet me for dinner at The Cock Tavern in Fleet Street at one o’clock!’ He signed his piece of writing with a flourish and bounded out.

  The Bournes all looked at Lucy, who shrugged and grimaced, signalling her ignorance.

  ‘Ambitious!’ muttered the elder John Bourne, glowering at the door through which Mabbot had just departed.

  The Cock was a big tavern: a sprawling place, with common rooms linked by passages and cubby-holes tucked under stairways. Gilbert Mabbot was in one of these when Lucy arrived. He was talking animatedly with two men, and when they looked up Lucy saw that one of them was John Wildman.

  ‘Captain Wildman!’ she exclaimed in delight. ‘I was hoping to speak to you!’

  ‘You’re known to one another?’ Mabbot asked in surprise.

  ‘We’ve a mutual friend,’ replied Wildman, smiling. ‘It’s Major Wildman now, Mistress Wentnor. I’ve been promoted to ease my departure from the Army. This business of our council and the Army’s kept me so busy I neglected my men, and it seemed best to resign my commission and let my lieutenant accept the charge, but my colonel gave me a new rank out of courtesy.’

  ‘It’s Jamie Hudson I wished to speak of,’ Lucy said breathlessly, sliding on to the bench beside Wildman. ‘Did he go to you about the blacksmithing?’

  Wildman’s smiled broadened. ‘Aye, he did. I gather you told him you saw no reason why he should not take it up again. For that, Mistress Wentnor, I am in your debt.’

  ‘You can help?’

  Wildman nodded. ‘I sent him to an Army blacksmith who owes me a favour. He must relearn his trade, but I’ve no doubt that if he sets his mind to it, he’ll succeed.’ He glanced at Mabbot and the other man and explained, ‘This is a man who was in my troop, to whose courage I am much indebted. He was maimed at Naseby-fight, and his friends have since been troubled how to help him. He worked for a time on the same press as Mistress Wentnor.’

  ‘So you’re a printer, Mistress?’ asked the third man. He was about Mabbot’s age: stocky, swarthy and hook-nosed, with a gold ring in one ear. ‘You’re a lucky man, Mabbot: my printers were never so fair!’

  Lucy gave him a cold look. Wildman smiled into his beer.

  ‘Come, sweet!’ said the stranger. ‘How much does our Licensor pay you? I wager it’s less than your worth!’

  ‘If you’re hiring printers, Nedham, does it mean you’re taking up your pen again?’ Mabbot asked quickly.

  Nedham gave a sly smile. ‘I might.’

  Mabbot did not seem happy to hear it. Wildman smiled again. ‘You are in the presence of the king of newsbooks!’ he told Lucy. ‘This is Mr Marchamont Nedham – otherwise known as Mercurius Britanicus.’

  ‘Oh!’ Lucy remembered Uncle Thomas’s admiration for that now-defunct newsbook. ‘Well, sir, I wish you well.’

  ‘Did you read his “Hue and Cry”, after Naseby-fight?’ asked Wildman enthusiastically.

  ‘Nay,’ admitted Lucy. ‘I never saw a newsbook until last spring.’

  ‘“Where is King Charles?”’ Wildman quoted with relish. ‘“What’s become of him? They say he ran away out of his own Kingdom very Majestically, and therefore it were best to send Hue and Cry after him: If any man can bring tale or tiding of a wilful King, who has gone astray these four years from his Parliament, with a guilty Conscience, bloody hands, and a heart full of broken vows and protestations, then give notice to Britanicus and you shall be well paid for your pains”.’ He laughed.

  Nedham grimaced and made a dismissive gesture.

  ‘And the king’s private letters!’ Wildman went on. ‘You know they were captured at Naseby, Mistress? Britanicus printed them, week after week, with such witty commentary that it made me laugh out loud. My men and I used to read them over again and again in camp, until the paper was quite worn out. It was the best stuff that ever I read in a newsbook!’

  Nedham, however, was shaking his head. ‘I regret that.’

  ‘Aye, for you and your printer went to prison for it, and you were obliged to grovel for pardon,’ said Mabbot acidly. ‘Parliament had delusions then that King Charles would agree a settlement.’

  ‘Nay, I regret speaking so ill of His Majesty,’ said Nedham seriously.

  Wildman gave a snort of contempt. ‘You spoke the truth, but at a time when men were not ready to hear it.’

  Nedham shook his head again. ‘The truth, sir, is that it’s an evil world, and the king at least fenced us from anarchy. With him down, England is the Devil’s plaything.’

  There was a silence. Wildman stared in surprise. ‘This is a change for the worse!’

  ‘All changes are for the worse,’ replied Nedham. ‘If you look, sir, at our other choices, mere pragmatism dictates a return to monarchy!’ He held up a thick-fingered hand. ‘There’s the Parliamentary majority and their friends the Scots.’ He folded down his little finger and ring finger. ‘God save England! Better a bishop than a presbyter, and better a devil than a Scots presbyter! Then there’s the Independents and their friend Cromwell.’ He folded down his middle finger. ‘That’s to say, the rule of the sword, in the hands of our fiery-nosed St Noll. How can our ancient laws and charters survive under the hooves of the Ironsides? Next, there are these new-fangled Agitators and Levellers, with their prodigious notion of a Commonweath—’

  ‘Sir!’ cried Wildman furiously. ‘A Commonwealth would indeed be a prodigy,
but a glorious one! God has cast down the old order and given into our hands the opportunity to make all things new – to set up justice and freedom such as this land has long desired and never attained.’

  Nedham gave him a long hard stare. ‘I perceive that you are a Leveller.’

  (Lucy remembered long afterwards that she first heard that name from Nedham.)

  Wildman flushed. ‘I reject that title! We have no intention of levelling men’s estates. Our desire is for a settlement of government derived from the authority of the people!’

  ‘The people, sir, are a mob of cobblers and kettle-menders, screaming for they know not what. A jolly time we should have, should we grant them authority!’

  ‘Sir, that is no argument!’ Wildman said fiercely. ‘That is mere railing! You—’

  Mabbot reached across the table and caught his arm. ‘John, stop! If you start disputing, we’ll be here until nightfall and get no business done!’

  Nedham got to his feet, sneering a little. ‘I will leave you to your business, then, gentlemen! Mr Mabbot, Mr Wildman – wild man! a fitting name for a Leveller! – good-day!’ He strolled off, untroubled by Wildman’s glare.

  ‘It is all consequences!’ Wildman said bitterly. ‘They say we dare not act justly because they can imagine ill consequences, even though no man can ever know the consequences of a new and untried action! The question ought to be whether or not the action is just!’

  ‘Nedham’s no lawyer, John,’ replied Mabbot. ‘Nor, I think, much concerned with justice. But I beg your pardon.’ He shrugged. ‘I met Mr Nedham in the street and invited him to join us before we discussed our business, because I liked Britanicus and I knew you did, too – but it seems he’s turned his coat. I am surprised to hear him speak for the king!’ He frowned. ‘And he means to take up his pen again! That’s bad news.’

  ‘You think he will write as a Royalist?’

  ‘What? Oh, God have mercy, if I thought that, I would’ve been bound to arrest him! But I doubt that the king will give him countenance after all he’s said of the man. No, I meant that a great many will read his newsbook and it will be harder for mine.’

  Wildman put his hand over his eyes.

  ‘Nay, I think I have an opportunity!’ cried Mabbot. ‘I want your advice on it, as a lawyer.’

  A serving-man appeared, carrying a tray. He stared blankly at the place vacated by Nedham.

  ‘The other gentleman left,’ said Mabbot, ‘but the young gentlewoman is joining us. I pray you, fetch her a pint of small beer!’

  The serving-man nodded, set down three dishes of beef and oysters, then fetched the beer. Mabbot waited until he’d gone again, then whipped a newsbook out of his pocket. ‘Read this!’ he ordered, his eyes gleaming.

  Wildman took it; Lucy, sitting next to him, saw that it was The Moderate Intelligencer, a well-established newsbook, not as popular as A Perfect Diurnall but with a larger circulation than most. ‘What am I to look for?’ Wildman asked.

  Mabbot reached across the table and pointed to a sentence under the heading. It was in French: Lucy didn’t know that language, but Wildman’s brows rose.

  ‘Well?’ asked Mabbot.

  Wildman made an uncertain face. ‘Well what?’

  ‘What does it say?’ asked Lucy.

  ‘“Dieu nous donne les Parliaments briefes, Rois de vie longue”,’ read Wildman. ‘That is, God grant us short Parliaments, and Kings of long life. I don’t doubt that most of England would happily say “Amen!”, but Parliament won’t join them.’

  ‘So I think, too!’ said Mabbot happily. ‘It gives me grounds to stop his licence to print.’

  ‘And you want to stop his licence?’ Wildman asked his friend. ‘Why? And who is “he”, anyway?’

  ‘John Dillingham,’ Mabbot said. ‘He who was formerly the Parliamentary Scout – and, before that, a tailor in Whitechapel. I’ve spoken to Robert White, his printer: he’s groaning under the burdens laid upon him, and if I provide him with help, he’ll happily print for me instead.’

  ‘If White’s willing to work for you, why do you need to close down The Moderate Intelligencer?’ asked Wildman reasonably.

  ‘I don’t mean to close it down,’ replied Mabbot, grinning.

  Wildman’s brows rose again. ‘You mean to steal the title? Publish it as your own?’

  ‘It’s a good title! Six or seven hundred people in London pay a penny for it every week!’

  Wildman shook his head doubtfully. ‘It’s a shabby trick, Gilbert. It’s an abuse of your new censorship!’

  ‘My fortune won’t bear the cost of starting up a newsbook ex nihilo!’ protested Mabbot. ‘And tricks are how business is done among newsmen. Dillingham’s played plenty of his own. He’s cheated White, for one.’

  ‘Aye, and look at the result!’

  ‘Do you say this would be unlawful?’

  Wildman thought about it. ‘No,’ he concluded. ‘You can legitimately cancel Dillingham’s licence; indeed, I can count off a dozen Parliament-men who would complain if you failed to. Dillingham, however, would keep the right to get a fresh licence, and then he might take you to court to recover his title.’

  ‘Would he win?’

  Wildman shrugged. ‘It would depend upon the court.’

  Mabbot considered that. ‘Even if he did, it would take time. I’d have my newsbook running profitably before it was settled.’ He turned his smile on Lucy. ‘What think you, Mistress Wentnor?’

  ‘I agree with Captain Wildman: it’s a shabby trick.’

  Mabbot’s face fell. Wildman smiled.

  ‘But I don’t suppose printing your newsbook is any more dishonest than printing the Diurnall,’ Lucy conceded. ‘Am I to speak with Mr White, so that he can see I’m help and no threat to his mastery?’

  Mabbot looked surprised. Wildman grinned at him. ‘She’s quick-witted, our Lucy,’ he informed his friend. ‘You did well to hire her.’

  Mabbot spent the rest of the meal telling Lucy when she should visit Mr White and what she should say to him. When they had eaten, and Mabbot had paid the reckoning, Lucy got up. ‘I must go back to my work,’ she said. ‘Captain Wildman—’

  ‘Major,’ he reminded her.

  ‘Forgive me, Major Wildman. Are you like to see Jamie Hudson soon?’

  Wildman gave her a warm smile. ‘Aye, I’m expected at Croydon for another meeting tomorrow, and his regiment is there. Will I bring him a message from you?’

  She’d thought of sending a letter; she’d thought of offering him the shilling a week, at least until he was earning a full wage – but if he was with the Army, he would have his keep, and as for a letter, it presumed too much. He hadn’t written to her, not even a word to say where he was going. That stung, though she tried to be reasonable about it. She’d kept her feelings to herself because there was no possible good that could come of speaking out about them, and she now suspected that he had done exactly the same – and they were both right to do so. She should put aside this wistful longing and engage instead with the work Mabbot was offering her, which might be of dubious honesty, but certainly sounded interesting.

  A message, though – that much, surely, she could do? ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘Tell him how very glad I am that he’s taking up his work again, and . . .’ She stopped, not knowing how to finish.

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ said Wildman. She saw from his expression that she’d given herself away and that Wildman would tell Jamie more than she’d ever dared to. She regretted that she’d said anything at all.

  Ten

  Robert White, printer of The Moderate Intelligencer, was a slovenly, red-faced lecher. A clay pipe was permanently fixed between his teeth, and his printshop was so full of tobacco smoke that it made Lucy cough. When he set eyes on Lucy he beamed and blessed Gilbert Mabbot, but when he’d been forced to let go of her, he retreated sullenly, rubbing his bruised ribs and shin, and became surly. He had three assistants – two men and a woman – and they all seemed downtrodden drabs. Lucy
did not look forward to working with him.

  That work turned out not to be imminent. August wore away, and Lucy stayed at John Bourne’s printing A Perfect Diurnall while Mabbot struggled frantically with his new censorship. She heard nothing from Jamie, though Wildman, whom she saw on a couple of occasions at The Whalebone, reported that he was well. She visited The Whalebone at irregular intervals, always when it was busy. Ned always welcomed her, but his attempts to talk to her were perpetually interrupted.

  The name ‘Leveller’ began to be used throughout London. Wildman told her he’d first heard it from the grand officers at the Army Council at Croydon only days before Marchamont Nedham used it at The Cock: he was impressed that Nedham had picked it up so quickly. At The Cock, Lucy hadn’t understood why Wildman had objected to it: she learned his reasons from the reaction of people around her.

  ‘Is it true you would level men’s estates?’ asked the younger Mr Bourne.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Lucy asked in confusion.

  ‘They say that you Levellers wish to do away with property and make men have everything in common.’

  ‘I never heard such an idea in all my life!’ she protested. ‘We wish no such thing!’

  The Bournes, however, were not the only people who drew that conclusion.

  It is not known yet whether we shall ever have a King again, [said a new newsbook], because the name Subject is a heathenish invection. We are like to have a brave world, when the Saints Rampant have reduced our wives, our daughters, our Estates into a holy community: whereby it appears that Matrimony must be converted into a kind of religious Caterwaule, when the model of this new Common-wealth has cast all its Kittens. John Lilburne and I are all-to-pieces in this businesse, because he has studied the Laws so long, that he finds that the only fault in them is, that they allow any Lords at all, and says he is resolved to lay the House of Lords flat upon their backs. The Agitators shall prove good mid-wives, and the Kingdom shall be brought to bed of that prodigious Monster which they call a full and free Parliament.