by Ann Swinfen
‘Tell Hester we will sup now,’ she said to Peter. ‘Have the children eaten? Nay? Then they may sup with us tonight.’
This evening, John was not followed home by any menacing shadow. His relief was tempered by the thought that an assassin might instead be lurking somewhere in ambush ahead, in the caverns of darkness between the occasional torches and lanterns that careful householders placed at their doors—fewer of them now than just a week ago—but he reached home unmolested. The house was quiet. In the parlour he found Anne reading a book, which she slipped into her pocket as he stepped through the door, taking up her needlework in its place.
‘Have you supped?’ she asked, as he kissed her cheek.
‘Nay, I have come direct from the House.’ He stood with his back to the fire, warming himself and blocking its heat from the rest of the room.
Anne went off to tell the servants to bring food and drink to the parlour. When she returned, she studied his face.
‘It went well, then?’
‘So far. The debate has been adjourned until tomorrow, since we had the more urgent matter of the army to deal with this afternoon. That word-spouting lunatic Prynne tried to stir up trouble, but luckily failed. The Speaker has despatched an order to Fairfax to halt the army.’
‘Will he obey?’
‘Unlikely. Unless the Lord Mayor and Council hand over to him the forty thousand pounds he demands, but they can’t possibly hope to secure that much in coin before Monday. I’m afraid that Fairfax will continue the march into London, to persuade the merchants to open their coffers the more speedily.’
John was still at his meal when there was a knock at the street door, and the manservant Peter showed John Crewe into the parlour. The older man looked worn by the day’s hard debating, but his cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright. He looks, John thought, like a man on the eve of battle. Do I wear my own passions as clearly as that in my countenance?
‘Mistress Swynfen,’ Crewe said, bowing over her hand, ‘I apologise for troubling you so late.’
‘Not at all, Master Crewe. Peter, bring in some supper for our guest.’
‘Nay, nay. I’ve eaten. But I should be glad of some of that hippocras I can smell, warming by the fire.’
‘Is it still snow and sleet?’ asked Anne. ‘Come, sit down, Master Crewe, and I’ll leave you gentlemen to discuss your affairs.’
‘Nay, Mistress Swynfen,’ said Crewe, staying her with a hand on her sleeve. ‘I would not turn you out of your warm parlour. There’s nothing you may not hear.’
When Crewe was settled in a carved chair by the fire with his tankard of spiced wine and his wet boots steaming in the heat, he regarded them both gravely. But before he could speak, there was a flurry of grey and white fur and a creature leapt on to his lap. Crewe exclaimed, as his wine splashed over his hand. Anne started up from her chair.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Master Crewe! It’s Jemima, the kitchen cat. She must have slipped in earlier, when Peter brought John’s supper.’
She reached out for the cat, but Crewe shook his head, laughing.
‘Is the cat named for my wife? Don’t trouble. I’m fond of cats. I admire their dignity and independence. Some of our fellows in the House could learn a few lessons from them.’
The cat settled herself and began to knead Crewe’s knee in its plum-coloured velvet breeches while he fondled her ears.
‘I thought I’d come round,’ said Crewe, ‘and tell you that I have received word the army is encamped this night in Hyde Park. Of horse: two full regiments and seventeen troops. Of foot: five full regiments and ten companies.’
‘Hyde Park!’ Anne’s hand flew to her mouth.
John’s breath caught for a moment in his chest. So near!
‘Aye. Hyde Park. They’ll be in no pleasant mood.’
‘You speak true enough,’ said John soberly. ‘And their tempers will not be improved by sleeping on the muddy ground, in wet clothing, without fires or hot food.’
There rose up in his mind a vision of that huddled mass of wretched men, dirty, hungry, filled with baffled anger. The king was held prisoner now. Who else could they turn their anger on but Parliament? Yet Parliament had not the means to pay them, nor to feed them, clothe them, house them against the winter storms. It had been badly done, this creation of a permanent army. Those army commanders who had planned it, as the best means of defeating the Royalist forces, had not thought ahead, had not made provision for the maintenance and care of England’s first standing army.
And now many would pay for their lack of foresight, soldiers and civilians alike. Rascals and vagabonds had flocked to the army, but there were decent poor men amongst the soldiers as well. That woman, seen last night, in the sea-green gown, jerked at his memory again. Decent poor men, as the man Edmund Watson had been, whose fate had robbed John long ago of the innocent blindness of childhood. Or Edmund’s baby son, who would have grown to manhood by now. Decent poor men who thought they might provide for their families by joining the army. Men who believed, as John himself did, that it was worth the struggle if it brought a better future for their children.
‘No one is sure how long they will stay at Hyde Park,’ said Crewe. ‘It may be that Fairfax will think that bringing the army this close will serve well enough to threaten us.’
‘You know,’ said John, ‘I see Ireton’s hand in this more than Tom Fairfax’s.’
‘Perhaps.’ Crewe nodded. ‘At the moment, their wishes march together. Fairfax wants victuals for his men, and shelter from this bitter weather. And, above all, their arrears of pay, before they turn even against him. Ireton wants to use the army to intimidate the House.’
John shifted restlessly in his chair. ‘And where is Noll Cromwell? Skulking about in Yorkshire? To what purpose?’
Crewe shrugged.
Anne was sitting a little outside the light and warmth of the fire, stitching back a piece of torn Hainault lace to the cuff of one of John shirts, but now she looked up.
‘Perhaps he prefers his son-in-law to carry out whatever disagreeable tasks they are plotting. Then he can come to London, his hands quite clean of any foulness. Didn’t Fairfax send for him? Cromwell’s not coming, when his commanding officer orders him to do so, argues a powerful reason. And a powerful confidence that he will not be dismissed for disobedience. Does he perhaps test his strength against the Lord General’s? He courts favour amongst the soldiers and even nods and smiles at Lilburne’s extreme notions. I do not like the man.’
‘I’ve always known you for a shrewd judge of character, Mistress Anne,’ said Crewe. ‘And there may be reason in what you say. On the other hand, though Cromwell is decisive on the battlefield, he hesitates and prevaricates in matters of policy. I truly believe the man does not know which course to support. When the first murmurings arose about putting the king on trial, he opposed the notion. But Ireton thirsts for the king’s trial and the king’s death. It may be that Cromwell now desires them, too, though he may not declare it openly yet.’
‘Treason,’ said John grimly. ‘Whatever we may think of Charles Stuart the man, as king he is the Lord’s anointed. What they purpose is treason.’
On Saturday, the debate on the Treaty was resumed in Parliament, with the turn of the army party to declare their opposition to any dealings with a man as slippery and untrustworthy as Charles Stuart. They were a mixed group. Some were fanatical against the king—against monarchy itself. They spoke passionately of a Puritan Republic. The most extreme even supported the ever-increasing demands of Lilburne’s Levellers, though none, even of the army’s supporters, countenanced the demands of the group who had earned the contemptuous name of ‘Diggers’. The members, after all, were themselves landowners and merchants. They had no plans to surrender their own property to a parcel of beggars and broken men.
Then there were those others who thought the monarchy might be allowed to continue, given certain safeguards, but not in the hand
s of the present king. His eldest son Charles, who was already too much his father’s man, could be passed over and the Crown bestowed on one of the younger boys: James Duke of York or Henry Duke of Gloucester. This held a considerable attraction, for a boy king could be controlled by a regency.
Listening to these members now, advocating everything from a child monarchy to the radical vision of the Levellers, John wondered what would happen if the object of their hatred were indeed removed. If they no longer had Charles Stuart to blame for all their suffering and losses, what would bind them together?
It was cold in the chamber, with small, sly draughts about the feet, yet it was already stuffy, as if there was insufficient air to feed the lungs of all these ranting speakers. John would have a long wait before he could deliver his summing up of the peace party’s support for the Treaty.
Even more urgent was the matter of the army. Fairfax had sent an answer to the Speaker’s letter of the day before. Sir Hardress Waller had been despatched by the army officers to speak to the House in person, but the members would not admit him, so the letter was read aloud to the members by a clerk. Unfortunately, the letter said, the order had already been given for the march on London to continue, and could not now be countermanded as requested by the House. These words, it seemed, came from Fairfax himself.
‘Perhaps Black Tom is not so unskilled a politician after all,’ said John to Nat Fiennes. ‘A bland answer, but it outfoxes us.’
For the most part, during the morning and afternoon sessions, the peace party held their fire and left the army party to speak. The debate dragged on. The air grew even more thick and stale. Men’s faces shone pale and greasy in the fading light of evening and there was a constant fidgeting along the armless, backless benches. The wound in John’s shoulder had begun to burn and throb with the beat of his blood. As he shifted uncomfortably, he felt the dressing pull away and the wound start to weep.
At last young Sir Harry Vane rose to speak and an expectant silence suddenly fell upon the chamber. This was the moment both sides had been awaiting with a keen sense of anticipation. Called ‘young’ because his father Sir Henry Vane also sat in the House, Harry was of an age with John, and they had known each other as students at Grey’s Inn. He had a womanish trick of throwing back the curly tresses that hung to his shoulders, and would then stroke the finger-span of beard which ran from lower lip to chin like a thick line of brown paint.
‘Gentlemen. Dear friends,’ Vane said ingratiatingly, ‘I can speak both as a long-standing friend of the army and also as one of the commissioners lately returned from discussions with the king. Thus I am best placed, perhaps, of any of us to judge what ought to be done in the present difficult circumstances.’
The silence grew tense, as men of all persuasions watched closely to see which way Sir Harry would jump. He looked round at them under his heavy lids and smiled a little to himself, relishing this moment of power.
‘By this debate,’ he continued, ‘we shall soon guess who are our friends, and who are enemies.’
He paused to allow the significance of that threat to sink into the minds of his audience and ran his fine-boned fingers through those chestnut curls, curls which had undoubtedly received some assistance from his hairdresser.
‘Before we make a decision in this great matter,’ he said, ‘let us call to mind those happy days after the Vote of No Addresses. Happy days indeed, when this House determined no longer to deal with the king, days when the nation was governed in great peace.’
He bowed slightly to Nat Fiennes, who was sitting crushed up against John’s elbow on the crowded bench. John felt him stiffen, for it was Nat who had proposed and carried the Vote of No Addresses a year ago, though he had long since realised the pointlessness of a policy which simply tried to ignore the king’s existence. By thus calling attention to Nat, Vane was seeking to undermine the honesty and sincerity of his speech on the previous day. There was no doubt now in the mind of any member. Vane was for the war party.
‘I made one of the commissioners to the king in a last hope of securing a peaceful settlement,’ he said, shaking his head sadly, ‘but I soon saw that this so-called Treaty was a mistake from the outset. The king, nay monarchy itself, cannot be trusted. My friends, let us therefore return to our former resolution of making no more addresses to the king, but instead let us proceed to settling the government without him, and to the severe punishment of all those who have disturbed our peace and quiet.’
He paused again, his eyes moving lazily over John and Fiennes and Crewe, who sat opposite to him. An expression of delight was mirrored from face to face amongst the army party. Those who feared Harry Vane had joined the moderates and would support a peaceful settlement with the king were elated. They relished the sound of ‘settling the government’ and of ‘punishing severely’ their enemies—inside Parliament as well as out.
‘By acting thus,’ Sir Harry concluded, ‘we shall conciliate the army and fulfil the programme of the Remonstrance first presented to this House twelve days ago.’
He smiled, bowed obsequiously to the Speaker, and sat down amidst the fervent applause of his relieved cronies.
‘I knew he was not to be trusted,’ said John flatly to Fiennes. ‘He’s been a poor friend since our youth.’
Before the army party could put forward more speakers to second Vane’s words, Prynne jumped to his feet. For all his wordiness, he was a shrewd judge of a political moment. It was in the interest of the peace party at this juncture to delay any further debate on the Treaty. The shock of the threatened invasion of London by the army was enough to unsettle minds and panic undecided members into voting to appease the soldiers, at any cost. If the vote could be postponed until Monday, some kind of accommodation might be reached, since the City fathers had promised to meet the demand for forty thousand pounds by that day. Prynne moved for an adjournment.
‘Until we are a free Parliament!’ he shouted, glowering at the faithless Vane. ‘Without a rascally army of traitors besieging this ancient House and seat of Liberty!’
There was an immediate scurry amongst the army party. For exactly the contrary reason, they wanted a decision now. Their leaders urged a quick vote, today.
Richard Norton, friend of Cromwell and Ireton, gained the floor. He shook his fist at Prynne. ‘Take heed what you say against the army, for they are resolved to have a free Parliament to debate the king’s answer, if we refuse.’ The threat in his words was clear to them all. He turned to the Speaker. ‘I move for candles, that the debate may be concluded this night, without further delays created by those members who have not the interests of this House and the people at heart.’
There was a hiss of indignation at these scurrilous remarks and cries of ‘Shame.’ Moderate members shouted that the army party was attempting to force a vote after the elderly members had gone home, who were known to support the movement for peace. The Speaker recognised the justice of this, and adjourned the House until Monday morning.
John walked home slowly through the bitter December wind. The tone of the debate—as much in what was implied as in what was said openly—disturbed him profoundly. The threat of violence against the moderates no longer seemed a remote possibility, it could be seen alive in the eyes of the war party. He must take steps to remove Anne and the children to a place of greater safety than the Westminster house. They must escape, and as quickly as possible. As he rounded the turn in the lane, he saw ahead of him a crowd of troopers and their horses clustered about one of the houses, hammering on the door. It was his own house. He began to run.
Chapter Five
Anne had promised John that she and the children would keep to the house all day on Saturday, with the army now known to be less than a mile away. There was a small walled garden behind the house, a London garden where little had been growing when they first arrived, save for a misshapen apple tree and a patch of rhubarb. The rest was weeds, rubbish, and a strong smell of cats. Anne had made a small garden of her
bs for cooking and for simples, and with the manservant Peter’s help had contrived a camomile seat with a rose tree in a pot to one side of it, and a honeysuckle beginning to clothe a wooden arbour above, where she would sit on summer evenings and pretend that she was once more at home in the country. This year, however, had seen more rain than any man living could remember, and she had spent little time enjoying it. News had come from all parts of the country of crops destroyed and harvests lost from the foul weather. Floods and storms had drowned both men and beasts, washed away low-lying homes, and sunk fishing boats.
Today, the garden was a bog of sodden earth, where the occasional snow of the last week lingered against the north-facing wall. There would be no chance for the children to play outdoors. The three boys, in particular, needed to run and shout. Not for the first time Anne longed for the freedom of the family properties at Swinfen, Thickbroome, Packington and Freford. If they were at home in Staffordshire, Jack and Francis could ride the quieter horses, Ralph could tumble about with the dogs, and all three could fish in Swinfen lake. In the cramped London house on this cold day, while the sleet continued to fall, they were soon quarrelling, and by dinner time Anne had already put a stop to two fights. Little Mary kept close by the nurse, Bess, but she was fretful, catching the sense of frayed tempers in the air. At four, Dorothea was an independent child, who would usually play quietly in a corner, talking to herself, but Jack and Francis had fallen over her in the midst of their brawl, and broken one of the little dishes her aunt Grace had given her. She had sobbed heartily at this, even when Peter had promised to mend it. Afterwards she twisted her fingers in Anne’s skirts and followed her everywhere.
The unborn child was as fretful as the five already under foot. It twisted and kicked, till Anne felt the drag on her back increasing with every step she took. Yesterday she had worn stays, loosely fastened, but today she had donned the old comfortable gown that she wore only about the house when no visitors were expected, and had left off her stays. The baby was taking advantage of this freedom to plague her.