London in Chains

by Gillian Bradshaw

  ‘Why there?’

  ‘Because I usually take my morning draught there.’

  ‘At ten o’clock?’

  ‘Such as you, Mistress, may rise at the crack of dawn, but I must burn the midnight oil, labouring in taverns such as this to collect the news; I do not rise so early! Meet me tomorrow at The Fleece and I’ll lead you from there to the press.’

  ‘I’ll wait, sir, until I know why Cromwell came here.’

  ‘What’s it to you? Is this woman’s curiosity, or are you a Leveller spy?’

  ‘I am a printer, sir, as you well know since you hired me! But if I come upon some news that might help my friends, of course I will pass it on to them.’

  Nedham stared hard; she stared back. He grinned suddenly. ‘Well, then! Come sit by me, sweet Lucy, and have some wine!’

  Lucy got up and moved her stool over against the far wall. Nedham glared indignantly, then sighed and poured himself more wine.

  They waited for perhaps an hour. Nedham put aside his wine unfinished, took out a notebook and pen, and began scribbling something that involved many crossings out and secretive smirks. At last Harry came back.

  ‘Their man came and spoke to them,’ he reported. ‘They both rose at once and went out the back way, to the stables.’

  Nedham raised his eyebrows, then got to his feet. He seemed to know his way around The Blue Boar because he didn’t go through the common room but along a passage, through the kitchen – which was empty, this late at night – and then out into a silent, frosty stableyard. He halted, and in the silence they both heard voices coming from the stable. Nedham walked silently across the yard and along the stable wall.

  ‘—and then you’ll let me go?’ came a man’s voice, sharp with fear.

  ‘You seem an honest fellow,’ was the reply in a deep, steady tone. ‘We’ve no wish to do you any harm. We will dismiss you once we have searched your saddle.’

  ‘My saddle?’

  ‘Your horse’s saddle, then!’ said a third voice impatiently; it was lighter in pitch than the second speaker, a tenor rather than a bass. ‘Give it here!’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Give it here, I say!’

  There was a silence. Nedham stayed where he was, leaning against the stable wall and listening intently; Lucy stood a yard or so behind him, scarcely daring to breathe. Inside the stable, a horse snorted uneasily; there was a jingle of harness.

  ‘Here!’ said the tenor voice. ‘Just as he said.’

  Another pause, and then: ‘I knew nothing of this!’ said the first voice, even more frightened. ‘I was told to take letters to Dover, b–b–but not that one; I knew nothing of that one, I—’

  ‘Silence!’

  Silence fell, thick and heavy. Lucy tilted her head back and looked up at the November stars, cold and white and beautiful.

  ‘Well?’ asked the tenor voice.

  ‘Read it for yourself,’ said the deep voice. It now sounded desperately weary. ‘He has played us false. God forgive me! I have pawned my reputation for that man; I’ve offended my friends; I’ve stood up on my hindlegs in the House and brayed of His Majesty; I have denied my own loyal men and done my utmost to suppress them when they cried out against him – and he has played us false. God help us! God forgive us! Deliver me from bloodguiltiness, oh Lord God of my salvation!’

  Nedham turned away abruptly. He saw Lucy, stared a moment blankly, then gestured back towards the inn. They hurried wordlessly across the yard and back into the empty kitchen.

  ‘Say nothing of that to anyone,’ ordered Nedham.

  It was dark in the kitchen; he was only a shape in the dimness. She strained her eyes, trying to make him out. ‘It was a letter from the king,’ she said. ‘It was sewn into the saddle. They were waiting to intercept it.’

  ‘I said, say naught! If you want to work for me, not a word! Aye, if you keep your lips sealed, you may have a gold angel for it!’

  ‘He might have taken his throne again last summer!’ she whispered in disgust. ‘But the selfish, deceitful rogue wanted all, and so the kingdom must bleed again! Why, in the name of God, do you want to protect him?’

  He took a sudden step forward, grabbed her shoulders and kissed her.

  She jammed a foot down on his toe, got an arm up between them and shoved him off, then slapped him hard across the face.

  ‘God damn!’ exclaimed Nedham indignantly, feeling his mouth where she’d hit him.

  ‘Don’t you touch me!’ she told him in a low voice. ‘What, you thought you could silence me by force?’

  ‘By love, I thought! Christ, my lip is bleeding!’

  ‘That’s your notion of love, is it? God have mercy on your wife and children!’

  ‘I’ve neither.’

  ‘Then God send you never get any! I’ll keep quiet about your master’s doings, but only because there’s no good that would come of speaking out about them. We already knew Charles Stuart for a lying knave, and now Cromwell does, too. As for people like you – you don’t care what he is, do you? If what we heard tonight ended up in The Moderate, your Royalist readers would say it was only a Leveller lie or part of some Leveller plot. I’ll keep our name clear of it, thank you!’

  ‘If you’ll keep quiet, I’ll be content.’ Nedham sighed. ‘Do you still want the work?’

  She hesitated, then thought of stitching sermons and of six shillings a week. ‘Aye. If you’ll keep your hands to yourself!’

  For a moment Nedham was quiet. Then he laughed. ‘Oh, you’re a rare one! “’Tis chastity, my brother, chastity: she that has that is clad in complete steel!” Very well: meet me tomorrow morning at The Fleece.’

  It was very dark as Lucy made her way back to Coleman Street: the lanterns which lighted the earlier hours of the night were all dark. The streets were foul and icy, and she slipped several times, though she managed not to fall. Her mind churned with questions about what she’d just heard. He has played us false. What had been in that letter?

  There was an obvious answer: the king had concluded a deal with somebody else, on terms completely unacceptable to Cromwell. There would be another war.

  The courier had said he was taking letters to Dover, which probably meant across the Channel to France – to the Queen, to the Prince of Wales. They’d been trying to raise a foreign army to invade England in the king’s name – but they’d been trying that ever since the war started, and if no army had been forthcoming when Charles was free and in power, it didn’t seem likely that one would be offered now. Most likely, the letter informed the Queen that Charles had finally made that long-feared agreement with the Scots.

  Lucy wondered whether she’d been right to agree to silence. She could see no good reason to publicize what she’d heard, but that didn’t mean that others couldn’t. There was such a fog of suspicion and ugly rumour over everything now, though, that she dreaded the thought of adding to it.

  She arrived at the Overtons’ house shivering and spattered with mud. She had no key and was forced to knock on the door. It was opened surprisingly quickly by Mary. She was fully dressed and she hugged Lucy and drew her into the house. ‘Where’ve you been so late?’ she asked, bolting the door on the cold night. ‘We were on the point of setting out to look for you!’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Lucy, surprised and remorseful. ‘It–it took longer than I thought. There was . . .’

  Richard came in, in his coat, with a sword at his side. ‘Back safely!’ he said in relief. ‘Did that rogue Nedham try your virtue?’

  ‘Aye!’ she said, surprised that, if he’d suspected trouble, he’d left her to defend herself.

  Mary looked dismayed, but Richard raised his eyebrows appreciatively. ‘Did you draw blood?’

  ‘When I hit him I did.’

  Richard laughed, and Lucy understood, with a surge of pleasure, that he’d expected her to defend herself successfully. Mary gave her husband a look of reproach and hugged Lucy again. ‘I should have come with you.’

>   ‘There was no need.’ She wasn’t sure whether or not she should tell the Overtons what she’d heard, but she was sure, quite suddenly, that she was desperately tired and wanted to go to bed. In the morning, she thought, when my head is clearer. ‘We agreed, in the end,’ she told the Overtons. ‘Six shillings a week and he’s to keep his hands to himself.’ She hesitated, then steeled herself. ‘I can move out as soon as I’ve found another place to stay.’

  ‘Oh, as to that, there’s no haste!’ replied Richard. ‘Six shillings a week! That’s a handsome wage for any unlicensed printer, let alone a woman! Mary . . .’

  ‘I’ve had my fill of unlicensed printing,’ said Mary quietly. ‘Dick, let’s to bed! This is matter for the morning.’

  Fourteen

  ‘The Fleece in Covent Garden’ was not actually in Covent Garden, but on a side street adjacent to the market piazza. Lucy had trouble finding it – she’d rarely been west of the City proper – and arrived slightly late, flustered and out of breath. Nedham wasn’t there, and she was miserably afraid that he’d already left. The tavern keeper refused her permission to wait inside unless she bought a drink, so she stood shivering by the door and hoped Nedham would come back.

  Just as the clock in the church on the marketplace struck eleven, Nedham turned up, rumpled and unshaven. He stared at Lucy in surprise. ‘Why not wait indoors?’

  ‘To spare my purse,’ she said sourly.

  ‘Ah, well! Come in while I have my morning draught.’

  ‘You’ve not had it?’

  He belched. ‘I had but poor sleep. Come on; I’ll no further until I’ve put something in my belly.’

  When they were seated inside the tavern and Nedham had his mug of ale, he gave her a thoughtful look. ‘Did you keep quiet, as you promised?’

  ‘I made no promise,’ she replied, ‘but I kept quiet.’

  He gave a snort of appreciation. ‘Promise now.’ He reached in his purse, took out a coin and held it low beside the table, so that the rich gleam of gold would attract no attention from anyone else.

  She hadn’t been certain that the offer of a gold angel for her silence was serious. She had never even touched one; the thought of a single coin worth half a pound seemed almost sinful. She licked her lips unhappily. ‘Nay.’ It was an effort to say it, but she felt better when she’d got it out. She might compromise her principles by printing his newsbook but she wouldn’t abandon them completely.

  He stared at her incredulously. ‘Nay? When you’re keeping silent already?’

  ‘I will not promise,’ she told him fervently. ‘I told you plainly, I will keep silent because I think it best for my friends, but if ever I think it would be better to speak, speak I will!’

  ‘God save me from Puritan Levellers!’ groaned Nedham. He stared at her a minute, then grimaced. ‘Very well. I doubt it will do much harm even if you do speak out. Be sure, though, that if you do, your days printing for me are done!’ He put the coin away and drank his ale. She watched him, struggling not to regret her honesty. She suspected that she’d just thrown a very expensive sop to her conscience.

  He finished his bread and ale, and they went back out into the chill damp of the November day. There Nedham halted. ‘Will you promise this?’ he asked. ‘That you’ll not betray the location of my press?’

  ‘That I can promise,’ Lucy said, relieved. ‘I will do all I can to keep it safe.’

  Nedham nodded in satisfaction and turned left, towards The Strand.

  Covent Garden was a new part of London: the big market piazza had been laid out just before the war, and several of the mansions that had been springing up nearby had been confiscated by Parliament before they were even complete. Nedham led Lucy round the back of one of these – she wasn’t even sure which one – and unlocked a door which led into a garden overgrown with winter-shrivelled weeds. He unlocked a second door, into what seemed to be a scullery or laundry – and there was the press.

  It was half the size of Nicholas Tew’s press; the oak beams that formed its structure were slender but reinforced with iron braces, making it altogether the most elegant machine Lucy had ever seen. It had clearly been designed so that it could be moved from one place to another quickly and easily, but this gave it the additional advantage that it was light enough to be operated by a woman. Mine! she thought delightedly.

  ‘There it is,’ said Nedham. ‘My press – or the king’s, which comes to the same thing.’ He stroked its side. ‘It travelled with the Royalist Army the last year of the war. When the war started, armies would have laughed at the notion that they should carry about a printing press! But now no commander feels complete in his provisioning unless he can bang out tracts and proclamations to keep the soldiers happy. Aulicus was sometimes printed on this.’

  ‘Aulicus?’

  ‘Did you never read it? His Majesty set up Mercurius Aulicus to trumpet his cause and vilify Parliament’s; John Birkenhead, he wrote it. I owe my career to that witty knave, because Parliament set up Britanicus to counter him. We shot poison at one another every week.’ He sighed nostalgically at the memory. ‘I’ll have no such merry sport again. Your friends Mabbot and Overton are honest, righteous fellows, though I’ll grant you that Overton writes like a charge of cavalry and has a lively taste for bawdy. Will he trouble you over this?’

  ‘Nay,’ said Lucy, blushing a little. ‘He urged me to speak to you. He believes in the liberty of the press and, besides, he says it does his heart good to see Cromwell pricked. Yet I do plan to lodge elsewhere, now I can afford it.’

  ‘Excellent!’ said Nedham with satisfaction. ‘Now, I have leave to be in this house – but only from the rightful owner. Those who’ve seized it know nothing of our presence here, and it is important that they not learn of it. All the caution you used for John Lilburne, you must employ again. Cold though it is, you can have no fire here – smoke would give the game away – and you must take care coming and going. I have an informant who should give me warning of any unwished-for visitation, but still you should be careful.’

  Lucy nodded, and they proceeded to thrash out details: she would be responsible for finding paper and ink but Nedham would pay for it; the text for the newsbook would be supplied the evening before it went to press; he would see that the printed copies were supplied to the mercury-women but she would keep track of the money. He would also supply a ‘rascal boy’ who would do the inking: he seemed well aware of how much having only one worker slowed things down. He wanted Lucy to start printing the following day, as soon as she could find paper, since there was none in the printwork-scullery.

  ‘Well, then!’ said Nedham genially, when all this had been arranged. ‘Will you come and have a cup with me, fair sweet printer?’

  She gave him a hard look. ‘Nay. If I’m to print tomorrow, I must be busy today. Give me the money for the paper, please you.’

  He rolled his eyes in disgust, but dug in his purse. He found two shillings and four pence, and frowned at them: it wouldn’t be enough. He glanced at Lucy, who was waiting patiently, then handed her the gold angel and a shilling. ‘Take your first week’s wage from that,’ he said, ‘and buy paper and ink. Bring me the receipts.’

  The weight of the gold in her palm brought another moment of regret, but it vanished quickly. She had her six shillings and tomorrow she would start to earn it.

  When she returned to the Overtons’ that evening, she was cold but happy, looking forward to the morning. The door opened to a smell of tobacco, and Richard Overton called, ‘Mary?’

  ‘Nay,’ she replied, coming through into the kitchen. ‘Lucy.’

  Lilburne was there again, but with a flood or relief she saw that this time John Wildman had joined the pair. All three men were sitting around the kitchen fire, Lilburne and Overton smoking their pipes, Wildman holding a notebook. He stared at Lucy in bewilderment.

  ‘Tom Stevens is dead of the smallpox,’ Richard explained, ‘and my wife offered Lucy houseroom until she could find her feet aga
in.’

  Wildman set down his notebook. ‘I am sorry for your loss.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ There was an awkward pause and then she blurted out, ‘Sir, do you know if—’

  ‘Jamie Hudson is alive and well, but under arrest,’ said Wildman. ‘He and the others accused have been sent to Windsor, where the Army is to set up new headquarters.’ He glanced at the other two and explained, ‘This is a man, formerly of my troop, who assisted Mistress Wentnor on the press last summer.’

  ‘What will be done to him?’ Lucy asked unhappily.

  Wildman hesitated. ‘That I cannot tell. There will be a court-martial set up within the next few days. Technically, Jamie should not be subject to it – he’s no longer a soldier but merely a blacksmith who chances to be working for the Army. I might apply to have his case transferred to a civil court – only I’m not sure whether it would benefit him.’

  Lilburne snorted. ‘That’s no easy choice! A court-martial would punish him for mutiny; a civil court, for belonging to the Army and being a Leveller and a friend of Agitators.’

  ‘If he’s not a soldier, then he can’t be guilty of mutiny,’ said Lucy hopefully. Despite Leveller denials, it was pretty clear to her that there had been a mutiny at Ware. Two regiments had arrived there contrary to orders, and one had driven off all the officers who tried to stand in its way. She had every sympathy for the men’s reasons, but they’d given Cromwell a strong case against them.

  ‘An argument which should have protected him,’ Wildman acknowledged, ‘except that when his friend John Harris was arrested, Jamie struck one of the arresting officers. Under military discipline that’s a flogging offence.’ He noticed Lucy’s expression and added, ‘A court-martial might well choose to be lenient! The question is whether Cromwell intends it to crush or to conciliate.’ He rubbed his face wearily.

  ‘This business with the Council of the Army . . .’ began Richard.

  ‘We can conclude nothing from that,’ said Lilburne. ‘It’s a thing he’s wished to do ever since the Agitators first sat down on it. To him, democracy is but a hair’s breadth from anarchy.’