by Stella Riley
LORDS OF MISRULE
Roundheads & Cavaliers Book Four
STELLA RILEY
Lords of Misrule
Stella Riley
Copyright 2016 Stella Riley
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In the Roundheads & Cavaliers series
The Black Madonna
Garland of Straw
The King’s Falcon
and affiliated to it
A Splendid Defiance
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE - London - December 16th, 1653
PLOTTERS ALL AWRY - London – January to May 1654
WINDS OF CHANGE - May to October, 1654
SHADOW DWELLERS - October 1654 to January 1655
THE GOLDEN KEY - London, February to April, 1655
EPILOGUE - Thorne Ash, Oxfordshire
Author’s Note
Westminster Hall, December 11th 1653
On entering the House and finding a few Godly men still remaining, an Army officer asked, ‘What do you do here?’
‘We are seeking the Lord,’ came the lofty reply.
The officer gave a sardonic smile.
‘Then you may go elsewhere; for, to my certain knowledge, he has not been here these twelve years.’
PROLOGUE
London - December 16th, 1653
The procession was a long one and Eden Maxwell, marching alongside his fellow Colonels in the wake of the Captain-General’s coach, was at the back of it. The entire route from Whitehall to Westminster was lined on both sides with infantry and, ahead of them rumbled carriages containing every important official in the City. Judges, Barons, the Lord Mayor and Aldermen, Lords Commissioners of the Great Seal, members of the Council … not a man-jack of them had been left out. And yet the streets were no more crowded than usual and the faces of those who stopped to watch the mighty cavalcade wore expressions ranging from mild curiosity to total bafflement.
This wasn’t surprising. As far as anyone knew, this was just an ordinary Friday afternoon. There had been no Proclamation announcing what was about to happen and wouldn’t be until Monday – although doubtless the ceremony due to take place in Westminster Hall would find its way into one or more of the newspapers before then.
Really, thought Colonel Maxwell acidly, the whole thing looks more than a little furtive.
Although he was careful not to let it show, Eden was in an extremely sour mood. Truth to tell, he’d been in an increasingly sour mood for the best part of eight months – throughout which, despite repeated requests for leave of absence, he’d been kept chained to his desk in the Intelligence Office due to the conviction of both Thomas Scot and Secretary Thurloe that he couldn’t be spared.
First it had been the seemingly endless paperwork generated by the so-called Nominated Assembly which the Council, in its wisdom, had decreed was to replace the recently dissolved Rump. Since the entire country had been crying out for fresh elections and a new Parliament and clearly didn’t want to be ruled by a clutch of fellows selected on the strength of their Godliness, Eden had wondered who’d come up with this asinine idea. Not that he’d cared very much because, once July came and the Assembly was in session, he would finally get his long-awaited leave.
And he might have done had not Thomas Scot suddenly quit his position.
Eden had known that Scot was highly critical of both the forcible expulsion of the Rump and of it being replaced with a non-elected body – now commonly known as the Barebones Parliament; what he didn’t know was whether he’d resigned voluntarily or been pressured into doing so. But whatever the reasons behind it, the result had been the same. Thurloe had insisted that Colonel Maxwell remain to fill Scot’s vacant shoes and deal with correspondence that would undoubtedly continue to arrive in his office.
After that, everything had gone rapidly downhill – and Eden’s mood with it.
Reports came in of a gathering of Highland chiefs at Lochaber; of discontent in the fleet over arrears of pay; of Royalist plots to seize Poole, Portland and Portsmouth. And then, despite having been banished on pain of death by the Rump, John Lilburne returned from exile and was promptly imprisoned, pending trial – which just added fuel to the fire. Throughout August, the streets around Westminster brimmed with his supporters and pamphlets and petitions demanding his release arrived daily by the basket-load; and Eden had suffered the continual harassment of Sam Radford who appeared to think he had more influence than he actually did.
‘They’re trying John for his life,’ Samuel had said furiously. ‘You’re on the inside. There must be something you can do.’
‘There isn’t. I’m just a cog in the bloody wheel – and a damned busy cog, at that,’ Eden had snapped back. ‘Use your head, Sam. No jury is going to be stupid enough to cause mass riots by sending Free-born John to the gallows. So get back to your own work and leave me to mine.’
More or less as Eden had predicted, the jury had eventually settled on a tactful verdict of ‘not guilty of any crime worthy of death’ … which, not being exactly an acquittal, had put Lilburne back in the Tower and caused another tidal wave of pamphlets.
For a brief time during September, despite the increasing unpopularity of the Barebones Parliament, peace had reigned … and Eden began to entertain hopes of escape. But the following month hundreds of angry sailors had besieged Whitehall until the Army came along to disperse them. And in November, a fracas in the New Exchange had resulted in the death of an innocent bystander and the arrest of the Portuguese Ambassador’s brother for murder. Eden, who already had more than enough to do, had sworn long and silently. Then, beginning with the intended victim – one Colonel John Gerard, in whom, for other reasons entirely, Eden had some interest – he’d started taking witness statements.
In Westminster, the Parliament had kept itself busy with a stream of largely non-essential legislation. Although none of its Members were lawyers, it voted to abolish the Court of Chancery without apparently sparing a thought for what might replace it; it prepared a new Marriage Act declaring that only ceremonies conducted by a Justice of the Peace would henceforth be legal; and it gradually slid into head-on conflict with Cromwell over the question of whether or not to abolish tithes.
Then, on December 11th, seemingly without any prior warning, the Assembly had handed its powers back to the Captain General … and quietly abdicated. And the result was that, five days later, here they all were processing down to Westminster for the so-far unannounced purpose of inaugurating Oliver Cromwell as Lord Protector.
The ceremony was to take place inside the Court of Chancery, where the great and good were already taking their designated places around the Chair of State. To one side stood the Lord Mayor, scarlet-robed Aldermen and black-clad judges … and to the other, Lambert, Desborough and all the chief officers of the Army – with the notable exception of Harrison who heartily disapproved of the entire business. One of the last to enter, Eden removed his hat and occupied a discreet spot against the wall while, clothed in a plain black suit and cloak, Cromwell walked slowly through a silence broken only by shuffling feet and the occasional cough.
Like the rest of them, the Captain-General remained on his feet and stood, hat in hand, while one of the Cou
ncil secretaries read out the lengthy, written constitution drafted by Lambert some eight months earlier which laid down the terms of the Protectorate. Lambert had called it The Instrument of Government. Eden mentally re-christened it How to Make Military Rule look Respectable.
During the seemingly endless time it took to read, he learned that the power of government would henceforth be held by the Lord Protector and a Council of State; that though Cromwell would remain Protector for life, the office was not an hereditary one; and that, every three years, the Protector was obliged to call a Parliament of no less than five months duration.
Announcement of the date set for the first Protectoral Parliament brought a sardonic curl to Colonel Maxwell’s mouth. September 3rd; the anniversary of Cromwell’s victories at both Dunbar and Worcester. It also, thought Eden cynically, granted Oliver a full nine months in which to order matters as he saw fit without parliamentary interference.
For the rest, control over the military was to be shared between Protector and Parliament – or the Council, when Parliament wasn’t sitting. There were various changes to constituencies and the franchise, aimed at reducing the influence of the gentry; religious toleration was granted to everybody except the Papists; and, inevitably, both Catholics and known Royalists were denied the right to vote at all.
It was all as eminently reasonable as one would expect of something issuing from Lambert’s pen. It was also tedious. Eden smothered a yawn and had to remind himself not to lean against the wall. He prayed that the ceremony didn’t require Oliver to make a speech. If it did, they’d all be here half the day.
When the Instrument had been read out cover to cover and Cromwell had sworn an oath of acceptance, he was invited, as Lord Protector of England, Scotland and Ireland, to occupy the Chair of State … and, replacing his hat – significant, Eden thought, only because no one else replaced theirs – he did so. There followed a great deal of solemn passing to and fro of ceremonial items, most of which Eden was standing too far away to identify … and finally it seemed that the thing was done. The Aldermen and Council led the newly-installed Lord Protector from the court and out to the waiting carriages for the journey back to Whitehall.
This time their progress was accompanied by a certain amount of cheering – though, as far as Eden could tell, the only ones doing it were the soldiers lining the route. Everyone else, of course, was as much in the dark as they’d been a couple of hours ago. And even if they’d known that they were witnessing the first moments of His Excellency’s rule as Lord Protector, Eden had a sneaking suspicion that there would probably still have been a distinct dearth of joie-de-vivre.
Speaking for himself, he’d run out of that particular quality eight months ago.
~ * * ~ * * ~
PLOTTERS ALL AWRY
London – January to May 1654
A Protector! What’s that? Tis a stately thing
That confesses itself the Ape of a King
The fantastic shadow of a Sovereign Head
The Arms-Royal reversed and disloyal instead.
In fine, he is one we may Protector call
From whom the King of Kings protect us all!
Major-General Overton
ONE
Her arms full of ledgers, Lydia Neville fumbled awkwardly with the latch of the front door. It would have been easier to pull the bell but, if she did that, they’d know she was home and someone would probably intercept her before she got more than three steps across the hall. It had been a long day. She was cold, tired and grubby. And the thought of having to endure the usual litany of criticism and complaint before she’d had time to wash her hands was more than she could tolerate.
The door opened unexpectedly, catapulting her inside and sending the ledgers flying across the floor along with a scattering of loose papers.
‘Sorry, Miss Lydia,’ whispered the maid, dropping to her knees and helping to gather up the books. ‘I was looking out for you and thought to let you in quiet-like.’
‘Pity it didn’t work,’ muttered Lydia, snatching up loose bills and invoices. Then, ‘It’s not your fault, Nancy. We’ll just have to be quick.’
‘Won’t do no good. That’s what I wanted to warn you about. They’re all in the best parlour.’
Lydia’s hands froze and she looked up.
‘What do you mean – all?’
‘Well, Mr Joseph and Mistress Margaret, of course … and Mr Gideon and Mistress Elizabeth are up from the country visiting his sister in Lambeth. And the Reverend Geoffrey’s here an ’all. They’ve been in there two hours and more, I reckon.’
‘Oh God.’ Lydia swept everything up willy-nilly and clutched the entire untidy heap against her chest. ‘What now?’
‘Lydia,’ said the glacial voice of her step-daughter-in-law from the turn of the stairs. ‘We thought it must be you.’
Brilliantly deduced, thought Lydia irritably. But she merely turned and said, ‘Yes. I’m a little later than I’d hoped.’
‘So we’d noticed.’ Margaret remained where she was, her eyes taking in every detail of Lydia’s appearance and her mouth tight with disapproval. ‘I was about to suggest that you join us in the parlour … but perhaps it might be best if you tidied yourself first.’
‘In most particulars, that was precisely what I had in mind,’ replied Lydia, dropping her cloak over a settle and heading for the stairs. ‘Perhaps you can bring some hot water up, Nancy? And then I’d like to change my gown.’
‘Right away, Mistress Neville.’ With a brisk curtsy, the maid whisked herself away in the direction of the kitchen.
Lydia swallowed a grin. Nancy only ever addressed her formally when Margaret was around to be irritated by it. Margaret, of course, wanted to be the one and only Mistress Neville and particularly disliked sharing the name with her late father-in-law’s second and, in Margaret’s opinion, extremely unnecessary wife.
‘That girl,’ remarked Margaret, ‘is impertinent.’
‘Really? I don’t find her so.’
‘No. You wouldn’t.’ Her tone suggested that Lydia wouldn’t recognise impertinence if it came up and smacked her in the face. ‘I also take exception to having your – your charity cases employed in this house.’
‘Yes. So you’ve said.’ Far, far too often. ‘But since Nancy is my personal maid and Tam never stirs above stairs, you need scarcely see either of them.’
Hoisting her skirts in one hand and holding tight to the ledgers with the other, Lydia tramped up the stairs only to halt a step below the half-landing because Margaret was still planted firmly in her way. She said, ‘May I pass, do you think?’ There was a moment of hesitation before the other woman stepped aside. ‘Thank you.’
‘Elizabeth and Gideon are here,’ remarked Margaret from behind her. ‘And Cousin Geoffrey.’
‘Again?’ Continuing on her way, Lydia neither paused nor turned her head. ‘He’s here so much these days that perhaps you should have a bed made up for him.’
And she set off up the second flight without waiting for an answer.
Once inside the safety of her room, Lydia dropped the ledgers on the bed and sank down beside them to draw a long, calming breath. The entire family seemed hell bent on driving her demented – though Margaret was by far the worst. That, reflected Lydia sardonically, was what came of having a step-daughter-in-law ten years older than she was herself. Their relationship had never been a comfortable one. But in the six months since Stephen’s death, it had deteriorated into a nightmare.
Lydia sighed and started stripping off her dusty, ink-stained cuffs.
She didn’t suppose anyone would believe that she missed Stephen. Margaret certainly wouldn’t. She’d made it plain from the very first that she considered her father-in-law re-marrying at the age of sixty-two – and to a woman forty years his junior – a massive and frankly ludicrous mistake. The fact that Stephen Neville’s reasons for doing so had nothing to do with acquiring a nubile young wife and everything to do with fulfilling what he
saw as a duty to the second-cousin who’d been his closest friend, didn’t weigh with Margaret at all. In her opinion, Stephen Neville could have put any roof over the heads of Sir Marchmont Durand’s destitute children. It didn’t have to be this one. And it certainly didn’t have to involve marriage.
But Stephen had seen it differently. He’d insisted on giving Lydia the protection of a well-respected name; he’d provided her brother with both a home and employment in the family pewter-making business; and for five years he’d been a bulwark of kindness to both of them. And Lydia missed him.
A tap at the door heralded Nancy with the hot water. Lydia cleared her throat of the lump threatening to form there and stood up. There was no point in repining. Life was what it was. The only question was whether she could endure this house for the remaining six months of her mourning period.
‘Is my brother at home?’ she asked, as Nancy started unlacing her gown.
‘No. He went out around noon and hasn’t been back since that I know of.’
Lydia suppressed a groan. She knew what that meant. It meant Aubrey was in a tavern somewhere associating with God knew whom. The best she could hope for was that he’d come back sober and alone – or whatever trouble was currently brewing downstairs in the parlour would only get worse.
Margaret liked Aubrey even less than she liked Lydia. It was tempting to wonder if the main reason for this was that Aubrey had inherited the baronetcy given to their father by the late King. It didn’t seem a very good reason … but the way Margaret always uttered his title in a tone dripping with sarcasm suggested that it wasn’t far from the truth. Of course, another reason might be that, having decided becoming Lady Durand might be no bad thing, Margaret’s elder daughter had recently started all-too-obviously setting her cap at him – and was getting precisely nowhere.