by Ann Swinfen
‘The words are the man,’ Crewe had once said of him, ‘strong, sincere, dependable.’ He had been moved but shamed on hearing it. He knew that within his most secret self he was weak, unsure, always fearing he might fail in what people expected of him. He felt like a child dressed as a man, acting a part—one of these days his disguise would be found out.
Last night, after blowing out the candle, he had gathered Anne into his arms and murmured into her hair, ‘I will battle for peace, dear heart, but I will battle in my own way, I promise you. My weapon will always be man’s gift of words and never the edge of the sword. Enemies may send attackers against me, but my way is not the way of violence. We must win men’s hearts with words.’
Crewe also praised John’s shrewd legal mind and unflinching honesty, and he hoped that the praise was merited. He tried to deserve it. Together with his talent in debate they had won him influence and many friends in the Commons, but had brought him enemies, too. Those who called themselves ‘independents’. Those who courted the army for purposes of their own. And, above all, those who secretly proposed an altogether different kind of government, where power would lie in the hands of the few who had seized it by force, rather than in an honestly elected English Parliament. Which of those enemies, he wondered, lay behind last night’s attack?
But would words, however eloquent, be enough to change the fate of a nation? Must there always be a blood-letting, as a physician must bleed a patient to draw off the illness? Certainly his words had not always proved effective within his own family. As recently as the spring of this year, his last encounter with his youngest brother had shown that. Richard Swynfen was seventeen then, a common soldier in the New Model Army, refusing an officer’s rank for some stubborn reason of his own. He had visited them in Westminster for one night as his regiment passed through. During supper and while Anne sat with them afterwards in the parlour, Richard had been content to talk quietly of home and friends, although he had made one mention of Lilburne, praising the man’s notions. He had seen Swinfen more recently than John and spoke of the bad times afflicting the countryside, with so many men away at the war.
‘Fields unharvested,’ he said, ‘and some not even sown. Widows made amongst our own tenants. Matthew Webster’s brother Thomas killed and Thomas’s wife sick and two of their children dead of the plague.’
‘The plague in Swinfen!’
‘Nay, they caught it when they went to her family in Tamworth. Thank God, it hasn’t reached Swinfen.’
Later, when Anne had gone to bed, Richard grew more outspoken.
‘All this huff-puff of yours in Parliament, John—what use is it? This division in the country will never be resolved by talking.’
‘Certainly it will not be resolved by killing each other.’
‘Perhaps not, but at least I’m not afraid to stand and fight against the corrupt men who gather about the king only to preserve their privileges and grind down the poor. These times call for more than mealy-mouthed compromises in the name of peace.’
John felt himself flush with anger.
‘How dare you!’ he cried. ‘There is nothing mealy-mouthed about trying to build a new world in which a parliament elected by the people holds the reins of government while the monarch is made subject to the law like the rest of us.’
‘“Elected by the people”? I think not, John. Elected by a handful with land enough to be enfranchised. Why, I myself will not be able to elect a member of this wondrous parliament of yours!’
‘You will have an estate, when you come of age.’
‘Will I? But what of the thousands who cannot make their voices heard?’
Richard jumped to his feet and shook his fist at John.
‘This country needs something more than your moderation!’ His mouth curled scornfully. ‘We must break the old pattern, build the world anew, share out more of God’s gifts amongst the poor.’ He drew a long shuddering breath and shouted, ‘How can you live, a gentleman, and not hide for shame when men and women are dying for hunger and want in this poor country of ours?’
Now, lying here in the icy bedroom, where his breath made a grey fog just to be discerned in the growing light, John thought of Richard’s outburst. He had been infected with these radical ideas in the army, and no amount of reasoning could persuade him that fewer would suffer and fewer die if peace could brought to the country. John turned to look at his sleeping wife. She lay curled on her side with her cheek pillowed on her hand, her night-cap slightly askew. He reached across and tenderly tucked a stray dark curl behind the lace frill.
It was six weeks until the baby was due. This would be her tenth lying-in. Pregnancy had brought roundness and bloom to her cheeks and a greater fullness to her mouth. He kissed her softly, so as not to wake her, and caught again the scent of rosemary in her hair. Even when she was not pregnant, her figure had not quite that boyish slender shape it had when they were married sixteen years ago, soon after they both reached nineteen. Laced into her stays, she was still slender, though more womanly. The child-bearing had not worn her away to a shadow, like so many, nor made her gross and ugly. And they had been lucky in their children, far luckier than most. Only two of the babies had died, boys who would have been between Dick and Nan in age, had they been blessed with longer life. George, born to live just a few short months, when Dick was a year old. Then the first son to be called John, born a year after George and dead within hours. Despite the death of that newborn son, they had called the next son John also, a name the Swynfens had been giving their sons for generations back, though everyone called this young one ‘Jack’ to distinguish him from his father. Jack was seven now, with two younger brothers and two younger sisters. All healthy, and, God willing, the new babe would be, too.
John turned again, uneasily. He had slept badly, his brains buzzing with plans for securing an end to this bitter civil war, his shoulder throbbing with a dull heat. It would be better if they were all away from London, Anne and the children, and back home in Staffordshire, now the army was marching ever nearer, bent on seizing control of the capital. The danger was too great. He would be easier in his mind with them safely away. He would be easier, too, about the coming fight he must wage in the House against his political enemies. Yet Anne could not travel all that distance by winter roads in her present condition.
How far would Ireton and Cromwell and their cronies venture, in their desire for power? Would they use force against those who had formerly been their allies, but whom changing circumstances had driven into political opposition? Would they try to dissolve Parliament? If new elections were held, the soldiers could be used to intimidate the electors, so that they would vote only for the friends of the army. He had brushed away Anne’s fears for his safety, but he did not trust Ireton. Cromwell was more cautious than his son-in-law and might have restrained him, but Cromwell lingered mysteriously in the north, under the pretext of directing the siege of Pontefract, where surely he was not needed. It was known that his commanding officer, the Lord General Fairfax, had ordered him back to London, but Cromwell had disobeyed, making clear which man was, these days, the more powerful.
Moving as quietly as he could, he slid from beneath the blankets and lowered his feet to the floor. A hiss of breath whistled between his teeth as his feet touched the freezing boards, and he picked his way across the room as if he were walking barefoot over nettles. He lifted aside the curtain at the window, which opened on to the same view as the parlour window below. The snow was scooped into the corners of jutting walls in St Ann’s Lane and lay in the gaps amongst the cobbles, but the sleet, melting as it fell, was licking it away.
‘John? What are you doing, standing like a pillar of ice in your nightshift? Come back to bed or put on your gown. What o’clock is it?’
‘I heard the Abbey bells strike six.’ He reached for his gown of ink-blue velvet and pulled it on over his nightshift, then sat on the edge of the bed.
‘I think you shoul
d keep close in the house today,’ he said. ‘In case any rough soldiers reach Westminster.’
‘But I cannot!’ She struggled to sit up, groaning a little with the drag of the child within her. ‘Patience Wyatt and I are to meet your sister at the New Exchange today. It was all spoken of when she and Charles dined here last week.’ She regarded him critically. ‘I suppose you had your mind on more important affairs.’
‘I suppose I did. Nay, don’t be cross with me. Send Mistress Patience with a message to Grace. You’ll be safer here at home.’
‘If it’s safe enough in the streets for my waiting gentlewoman, then it’s safe enough for me.’
‘Patience is not seven and a half months gone with child,’ he pointed out calmly.
‘When am I not with child?’ she said tartly. ‘It’s no great matter.’
John sighed. In company Anne was as obedient a wife as any man could wish, but in private she could be wilful. He must make allowance, he told himself wryly. For did not St Peter himself urge husbands to give ‘honour unto the wife, as unto the weaker vessel’, her poorer wits making her less able in understanding than a man? Whilst he was marshalling his arguments, Anne forestalled him.
‘I must go, John. I’ve promised to accompany Grace to her tailor to bespeak the gown she will wear at Charles’s next concert. Since the loss of his position at court, you know how difficult life has been for him. The concert is to be performed before Fairfax and Cromwell. If they’re pleased, it could mean so much for Charles.’
‘Black Tom Fairfax is not likely to be in need of a court musician,’ he said, feeling the argument slipping away from him.
‘Nay, but Noll Cromwell is famed for his love of music, and isn’t he the man rising in power? Charles was full of the plans he’s making with his brother Edward. Weren’t you listening? They’re going to compose a musical play, an opera, like those performed at the courts of Italy and France. The first ever to be staged in England! It’s to be called The Siege of Rhodes. If Cromwell agrees to attend it, they’ll be restored to their former position of honour and distinction.’
He sighed, unwilling to continue the discussion. ‘Promise me, then, that you will take boat to the City. Keep away from the streets. The river will be safer.’
She leaned forward awkwardly over the hump of the baby and kissed him on the nose.
‘We’ll go by the river, I promise you. And I’ll bring you back some new silk handkerchiefs, so that you may be as fine as the king himself.’
‘Poor Charles Stuart,’ said John, shaking his head. ‘The man is an arrogant tyrant and slippery as a Thames eel, but I wouldn’t like to be in his scarlet-heeled shoes if we fail to win the day in Parliament over this matter of the Treaty. It is our one hope for peace. Come now, will you ring for the servants to make me some hot spiced wine before I must go out into this bitter weather?’
‘Aye. And I’ll change the dressing on that shoulder of yours.’
John walked early to the Palace of Westminster through the sharp wind and driving sleet. At the top of the steps, Nat Fiennes and John Crewe were awaiting him, as they had agreed the previous evening, Nat more dapper than usual in a resplendent new doublet of canary yellow. He looked eager and happy. Crewe looked tired, as if he had slept as badly as John. All three withdrew into a corner to determine tactics for the day’s business.
‘First of all, Denzil Holles is to present the latest papers from the commissioners,’ said Crewe. In the brighter morning light John detected new lines of worry on his good-natured face, which had not been there three months ago, before the mission to the king. And his hair had faded from grey to near white. ‘Then we’ll move to discuss the king’s answers. Holles is hot for the peace on almost any terms, but he did good work in Newport, persuading the king not to be swayed by Harry Vane’s sweet words. Vane claimed that His Majesty would have better terms from the army than from Parliament!’
John made a sound of muffled irritation. ‘I mistrust Vane. Look how in the past he’s been with the army party, for continuing the war. Then he shifts his ground and votes with us, for peace on acceptable terms. And then makes one with you on the commission to the king. Yet his closest friends are enemies to all that we’re trying to achieve.’
Crewe shook his head. ‘I cannot read him either. A giddy weathercock? Or a man who has sincerely changed his mind? He behaved with discretion in Newport, except for this one suggestion of his, that the army would make the king a better offer. Even Charles Stuart had the sense to give no credit to that. Is Vane really hesitating which way he will vote? Or was he sent there to spy upon us, to undermine our negotiations and report back to Cromwell and Ireton?’
‘Here’s John Clotworthy come to join us,’ said Fiennes, waving to the man slowly climbing the steps.
Like Crewe, Clotworthy had reached London late the previous evening, and like him still looked exhausted and wan with the long negotiations and the hard ride back from the Isle of Wight. He was nearly as old as Crewe, who had been born in the last century, when Gloriana was on the throne. Clotworthy was a big man, as tall as John but much heavier built, with a neck like a prize bull and eyes that shone with all the appearance of sincerity.
He clapped John on the shoulder and remained leaning there, as if the weariness of the last days still made his bones ache. John stifled a yelp at the jab of pain in his wound.
‘So, Nat,’ Clotworthy boomed, ‘are you preparing to lead the assault this morning?’
‘Our case is good,’ said Fiennes with enthusiasm. Neat and small, he had to tilt his head back to look up at Clotworthy. ‘Only those who thirst for blood and revolution can deny it.’
‘Before we go in,’ said John, ‘I want to warn you.’
Briefly he gave them an account of the previous night’s attack. They looked at him in consternation.
‘Who would dare do such a thing?’ asked Fiennes.
John shook his head.
‘I’ve no way of knowing, and the Watch cannot have caught up with them or they would have come back to report to me. But I think you should be on your guard. I was lucky. Next time, one of us might not be so fortunate.’
They filed into St Stephen’s Chapel to take their seats on the green benches, which were beginning to fill, though not all the members would be here today. Winter weather always kept the less active members confined to their country estates, while the more nervous or cowardly, fearful of the battle which must be fought in Parliament, had stayed away from choice, or departed hastily from Westminster for the country when word of the advancing army reached them.
At last Speaker Lenthall swept in with his various clerks and attendants, and took his seat at the top end of the Commons’ somewhat cramped quarters, in front of the great triple window, through which the thin winter sun shone, pale as watered ale. If all the members had chosen to attend, over five hundred of them, St Stephen’s Chapel could not have held them, but no man there could recall such an event ever occurring. This morning there were about two hundred and fifty present, by John’s rapid reckoning.
After the opening prayers and other formalities, Denzil Holles rose and begged leave, on behalf of the returning commissioners, to present the latest papers they bore with them from the king. His clothes hung loosely on his powerful frame as if he had lost weight in the months he had been absent. Once famous as a fiery spirit, and passionate for absolute military victory over the king and his supporters, he had been appalled and sickened by the bloody slaughter. Familiar now with the reality of war, wading through the corpses of Englishmen slain by Englishmen on the battlefield, he wanted no more of it. His only danger to John’s party was that he might now be willing to accept peace on any terms, without securing the grounds which would make for a just and lasting settlement.
‘The past years of war,’ said Holles, his voice trembling with suppressed passion, ‘have undone the ordered harmony of society and threatened the natural hierarchy, the very foundation and basis God has laid down for this su
blunary world. The war policy of those members there,’ he pointed a finger towards a group of the army party sitting opposite, their arms folded and thunder in their looks, ‘their policy of total revolution, will bring great evil down upon this nation. The meanest of men, the basest and most vile, whose rightful place is in our dungeons or at the end of a hangman’s rope, have got power into their hands. They have trampled upon the Crown, an institution ordained by God. They have baffled and misused this Parliament, elected by the people of the nation to protect and care for them. They have destroyed or suppressed the nobility and gentry, and laid waste their lands. They have spread rapine and famine amongst the poor. They have violated the very laws that bind together the civility of men.’
The motion was proposed that the House should consider the king’s replies to the commissioners. An outcry arose from amongst the army party. They shouted and booed. Some stood upon the benches and waved their hats. Others crossed the floor and shook their fists in the faces of their enemies, but the Speaker motioned to the sergeants to restore order, and the motion was passed.
Hot on its heels, Harry Vane came late into the chamber, attracting assessing looks from both sides. He took his seat near his friends of the army party, but not too near, as if he chose to tease all the members by not showing his hand too soon. Across the intervening space of floor he studied John speculatively. Was it John’s imagination, or did the look he cast at John’s shoulder hold some hint of private knowledge?