by Ann Swinfen
Anne kept to the house all day on Wednesday, thinking it safer not to venture out into the street where so many soldiers roamed about. No one came near except for tradesmen. Soon after John left for Parliament, the baker’s man arrived with his basket of bread, and Anne sent Hester with threepence for three large loaves. After that the house was strangely quiet. The children seemed subdued by the continued presence of the army outside, and the servants went about their work nervously, murmuring in corners. In the afternoon Anne sat with Francis. He had been a little better in the morning, and begged to be allowed to get up, but she would not permit it. Now he lay with his eyes shut but not sleeping. His fever was so high Anne could feel the heat coming off him in waves. From time to time he moaned a little and tossed off the blankets, which she tucked firmly back again, for the attic room was bitterly cold.
Peter tapped softly at the door and put his head around it.
‘Mistress Swynfen? The dairymaid has just delivered the milk. She apologised for coming so late, but there’s been a great to-do, she said, and many of the streets are blocked. She had great difficulty calling at her usual houses.’
‘What sort of to-do? Is she still here?’
‘Nay, she wouldn’t stop. Troops of horse around Parliament, she said, and foot soldiers with drawn swords standing on duty in all the roads leading there. The talk in the street is of arrests, but who’s arrested, no one can say. I thought you should know. It may be the master will be late again tonight.’
‘You were right to tell me. Thank you, Peter.’
‘Young Master Francis, how is he?’
‘Worse, I’m afraid. Come and sit with him while I fetch more of my fever medicine and make up a poultice to draw the ill humours from his head.’
The house in St Ann’s Lane heard no more news of the outside world until the evening. Patience was sitting with Francis while Anne ate a hasty supper of bread, cheese and ale in the kitchen. With the household so disrupted and all the glassware and plate packed away, Anne saw no reason to maintain a pretence of normality by eating alone or with Patience in the dining parlour. Accordingly, she was in the kitchen when a knock came at the back door and Ned’s nephew, young Sam Carpenter, a journeyman tailor, came in stamping the snow from his boots and shaking it off his cap into the kitchen hearth, where it set the coals spitting and steaming. His glance took in the packed cases on the floor and the cupboard doors standing ajar.
‘I beg pardon, Mistress Swynfen,’ he said, unable to conceal his surprise at seeing her sitting there amongst the servants at the kitchen table. He ran his fingers through his spiky red hair in an attempt to flatten it.
‘We are all in a caddle here,’ said Anne. ‘Come to the fire and warm yourself. Have you supped?’
‘Aye, thankee, but I’ll take a cup of ale to steady me after running the curfew.’
‘Curfew!’
‘It seems the army rules London now, and they have imposed a curfew at nightfall. Our Trained Bands were sent back from Westminster to the City this morning. But I’d promised myself to come and see how my uncle was faring. And all of you,’ he added courteously.
‘What news?’ Anne clasped her hands together anxiously. ‘What has happened in Parliament, if the army has seized power in the streets? My husband hasn’t been home since morning.’
He looked at her gravely, straddling the hearth with his ale mug in his hand.
‘I thought you’d be sure to have heard by now. Ireton and his fellows have turned away near two hundred of the members from the House. Driven them away at the point of the sword. And seized some of them. Carried them off, no one knows where.’
He cleared his throat.
‘Those who were turned away but weren’t arrested—well, most of them have already fled London and gone home to their own counties. ’Tis the general belief they’ll be safer there, amongst their own people. Parliament is destroyed. Everyone knows Master Swynfen is no friend of the war-mongers. Only the army’s men were allowed into the House this morning. If your husband didn’t come home again by noon, then he’s one of those arrested and imprisoned.’
Not one of the household slept that night. Anne stayed with Francis and put Jack and Ralph into her own bed. The fever was coming to a crisis and around midnight Francis became delirious.
‘Go away!’ he shrieked, lashing out at some monster only he could see, struggling against the bedclothes. ‘Nay! Nay! I won’t!’
Anne called Peter to help her hold the child so that he would not injure himself as he fought the demons. At last he slumped back, exhausted, in Anne’s arms. His fair hair was darkened with sweat and plastered to his head, and his night shift was wringing wet, but he seemed a little cooler. Peter brought up a jug of warm water from the kitchen. Anne stripped the child and bathed him while Peter put dry bedding on the bed. Francis had lost weight in the last few days; his body was pathetically thin, his ribs standing out like a wrecked ship sunk in a sandbank. He lay as loose on her lap as a bundle of rags. She dressed him again in a clean night shift, wrapped him in a blanket, and cradled him in her arms.
After Peter had taken away the damp bedding to dry by the kitchen hearth, Bess peeped nervously round the door. She was a plump, kindly girl, but inexperienced. She had come to them, a scrawny thirteen-year old, just before they had come to Westminster, with little to recommend her but a natural fondness for children. Anne had had no time to search further for a woman servant before they left Staffordshire, after the death of the old family nurse two weeks earlier. Here, with no great household to run, she had taken on more care of the children herself, and Bess was learning, slowly, but in an emergency she was apt to come running to Anne, uncertain what to do. In her arms now she was carrying Mary, who sobbed fretfully, kneading a scarlet cheek with her fist.
‘The babe is sickening, too, mistress,’ said Bess. Her cap was gone, pulled off by the child, and her hair hung about her shoulders in a distraught tangle.
Mary held out her arms to Anne, and then, when she saw Francis occupying her rightful place on her mother’s lap, she began to scream and kick with rage.
Examining the baby as best she could while Bess held her, Anne was relieved to find she was only slightly feverish. The reddened cheek and frantic rubbing convinced her what was wrong.
‘I think she’s teething, Bess. Go to the still-room and bring me the gallipot third from the left, on the bottom shelf. I’ll rub her gums with my paste of cloves and peppermint.’
She could not trust Bess to do it herself, for the girl could not read the label. She might fill the child’s mouth with an embrocation for sore muscles or a rhubarb purge.
The clove paste quietened Mary for a time, surprised and comforted by the strange taste in her mouth, but she was soon raging and screaming again, hitting out at poor Bess when she tried to comfort her. One whole side of her face was enflamed. Anne put the sleepy Francis back to bed and entrusted him to Patience’s care, while she took Mary down to sit by the kitchen fire, as far away from Francis as possible, that he might benefit from a healing sleep.
It was a weary while for everyone, since despite all Anne’s efforts Mary screamed with pain the rest of the night, robbing the household of rest and fraying already stretched nerves. By morning all were short-tempered with fatigue. Ned had refused to go home to the City with his nephew the evening before, saying the mistress would need the two men about the house if Master Swynfen was indeed in danger. This morning, however, watching him trying to make up the fires with his shaking hands, Anne feared she could soon have another invalid to care for. Sam had promised to return as soon as he could, to help the family however he might. Anne knew she would be glad of his help, if she decided to escape from London. She had never expected she might have to make the journey home without her husband. With so many people dependent on her, she dreaded the thought of embarking on such a perilous undertaking.
As day broke and she retired to her chamber to change
out of the clothes she had worn all night, she felt as if demons were pulling her brain in a dozen different directions. Should she leave or should she stay? Should she fetch Nan and Dick home from school? Would it be safe to travel all the way from Westminster, through the City, and out into the country, to fetch Nan back from Hackney? And what if the unborn babe should come early, while they were travelling home to Staffordshire? Nan, Francis and Mary had all been born before their full time. The wild country north and west of London, an area notorious for footpads and highwaymen, and in a snow-bound coach, was no place to give birth.
And still no word came from John.
The one consolation for the freezing cold in the cellar of Hell was the thought that in summer the stench would have been far worse. Forty-two men, confined for many hours in an airless place, some of them old and infirm, some loose in their guts with fear, took on a stink worse than a herd of animals awaiting the slaughterer’s knife. As the hours of the night passed, the cellar began to reek like a midden and every breath seemed to draw in too little of the wretched air to feed the lungs. They had eventually all fallen silent, though few could sleep, and waited miserably on events. Twice during the night Master Duke had sent down a frightened servant with new candles for the lanterns, but he could not, or would not, answer the prisoners’ questions.
Climbing to his feet, his breeches damp from the stone floor, John found that his injured shoulder, which had begun to mend, had stiffened in the night. As his swung his arm cautiously, trying to work some feeling back into the knotted muscles, the dressing tore from the wound with a sickening stab of pain. He leaned against the wall, dizzy, with nausea climbing in his throat. Crewe cast an anxious look at him, but he shook his head slightly, urging silence.
Clotworthy had a pocket watch, which was about as accurate as any to be had, but he could not vouch for the true time. With its Delft blue enamel laid between gold filigree, it was more a thing of ornament and vanity than an instrument of scientific accuracy. He tilted it towards the nearest lantern and tried to make it out.
‘It reads ten o’clock, but that could mean anything from eight of the clock to noon.’
‘Better than this, at any rate,’ said Crewe with a rueful smile, holding out his pocket sundial on the flat of his palm. ‘If we could but hear the Abbey bells in this infernal hole—’
Overhead, the trapdoor gave out its now familiar rasping groan as it was thrown back. Few of the prisoners even bothered to glance up, having despaired of any food or other comforts. A new, more senior officer came carefully down the steps, accompanied by a rush of fresh air.
‘That’s the Provost Marshal,’ said Massey softly in John’s ear. ‘At last, someone more senior than a lackey.’
Dark-haired and sallow, his buff coat and sash showing signs of hard wear, the Provost Marshal gave a slight bow, as uncertain of the formalities in this situation as the men who regarded him resentfully.
‘Gentlemen, I trust you have not spent too uncomfortable a night.’
This insulting remark was greeted with shouts of derision.
‘Let us out of this filthy hole!’
‘Privilege! Privilege!’
‘You traitorous dog!’
‘None of us has had bite or sup for more than a day. For God’s sake, man, send for some breakfast!’
‘There are old men here, and sick men. You’ve not given us so much as a crust of stale bread or a mug of water.’
The general clamour for food overwhelmed all other demands. In the end, the Provost Marshal agreed reluctantly to return to army headquarters to try to arrange for breakfast. When he had gone, the mood of the prisoners improved. Some even combed their hair. John rasped his hand along his unshaven chin. Suddenly conscious of the appearance of his fellows, he realised he must look like a filthy, half-wild brigand by now. Still, his heart lifted at the thought of food. He was growing weak with hunger. With meat in his belly, any man is twice as brave.
It must have been an hour before the Provost Marshal returned from Whitehall Palace, and as the trapdoor was lifted this time, all could hear the bells of the abbey ring out eleven o’clock.
The Provost Marshal was not accompanied by breakfast. Instead, he stood at the top of the steps and ordered the prisoners brusquely to ascend them one by one. As each man did so, his elbow was seized by a musketeer and he was hustled through the public room of the tavern to the front door. Innkeeper Duke sat forlornly amongst his empty tables, but his expression lightened considerably as he realised that his uninvited guests were being taken away. Dim as the winter sun was, and blurred with falling snow, John found himself groping and staggering across the room like a blind man, what with the long confinement in the dark cellar and the stiffness of his limbs. He clutched at the door frame for support, only to be jerked away by his guard.
‘Get into the coach,’ the man said, propelling him forward with a blow of his fist between the shoulder blades.
John half fell into the coach and was pulled aboard by Stephens and Copley as the door was slammed behind him. The musketeer slapped the side of the coach to signal to the driver to move on.
‘Where are they taking us?’ asked John. He was forced to stand, holding on to a tasselled grab-rope. All the seats were filled, and Stephens and Copley were also standing. As the coach lurched over the uneven cobbles, they fell against one another.
‘To Whitehall,’ said Copley, clutching John’s shoulder to steady himself. ‘To be interviewed by that pack of insolent traitors. Some of them were my own junior officers once.’
‘I pray they give us something to eat,’ said Massey, whose knees were pushed sideways against the door because of the crush. ‘I swear I’ve never been so hungry, not even on campaign. I’ll fight every man-jack of you for the first crust!’
Several groans of agreement greeted this remark.
At Whitehall Palace, once the London home of the royal family, the prisoners were marched off and confined to a very cold room, without a fire. It was an improvement on last night’s prison. The walls were not running with wet. There were windows and a carpet on the floor. There were even a few chairs, although not enough for all. John walked over to a window and looked out. Until last night he had never supposed that he suffered from a fear of enclosed places, but the sense of relief he now felt came more from being out of that terrible cellar than from any hope that their fortunes had turned.
Here the prisoners were kept confined for several hours. The Provost Marshal informed them that the Army Council was too busy debating more pressing matters to turn its attention to the trivial affair of the arrested Members of Parliament. A brief diversion occurred when Thomas Gewen and Charles Vaughan were thrust through the door to join them. The prisoners crowded round them, begging for news.
‘Yesterday,’ said Vaughan, ‘the remaining members—those allowed into the House—refused to conduct any more business until you prisoners were released. And today many who’ve been excluded have sent in written protests to the Speaker.’
‘God be praised,’ said Prynne. ‘Even their cronies in the House look on appalled at what these lawless men are perpetrating.’
‘Don’t raise your hopes,’ said Gewen. ‘Fifty more were turned away from the House today, on the grounds that yesterday “they stickled for the privilege of Parliament and the restoration of the members now in hold”. Then we two were arrested.’
Gewen and Vaughan had little other news, except that some members, like Holles, had fled London before they could be arrested, and many of the secluded members had retired to the country, there to lie low or else to gather local support, according to their temperaments.
John pounded his fist against the panelled wall.
‘It will mean war, all to be endured again, now with those who were once friends tearing each other apart!’
The waiting continued, the room grew colder. Sir Robert Harley had lost his voice entirely and seemed to grow more ill with each passing hour.
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One of the older men, Thomas Lane, had been sitting in a chair against the wall without moving for some time. His head had slumped on his shoulder in such a way that it aroused John’s concern. He touched Lane on the shoulder.
‘Sir? Are you unwell?’
Lane struggled to lift his head and gave a groan, then slid suddenly off the chair to the floor at John’s feet. Stephens and Massey rushed forward to help John lay the man more comfortably, with someone’s cloak rolled up under his head and two more spread over him against the cold.
‘His breathing is light, but normal,’ said John, scrambling to his feet again. ‘I think he’s simply fainted from lack of food and drink.’
At about six o’clock, servants at last brought in trays of victuals and set them down on a side table. They withdrew quickly before any could lift the cloths covering the trays.
‘Burnt wine and biscuits!’ cried Waller in disgust. ‘After a day and a half of starvation. I never treated even a captured enemy thus.’
However, they fell upon the meagre food, finishing it in a few minutes. John carried a share over to Thomas Lane, who had been raised up by Crewe and now sat on the floor, leaning groggily against Crewe’s shoulder.
‘Take some of this, slowly now, sir,’ said John. ‘’Tis little enough, but it will make you feel better.’
It was dark before another officer appeared, only to say insolently that the Army Council was too busy to see them today.
‘You’ll be told the army’s terms tomorrow. You’re to leave the Palace now. Follow me.’