by Ann Swinfen
They went shuffling out after him, dirty, stiff, hungry, even the young men bent and awkward as grandfathers. Outside stood a single coach, in which six of the oldest and most infirm were permitted to ride. The coach drove off, and a musketeer seized each of the other prisoners by the arm. They were marched off after the coach, a heavy guard of soldiers surrounding them on all sides to prevent escape. Out of the grounds of Whitehall Palace to King Street they went, the soldiers setting a fast pace, too fast for men deprived of sleep and food, whose bones ached with sitting upon wet stone and hard floors. They turned right into King Street and marched about a quarter of a mile to Charing Cross, all the way taunted and threatened by the soldiers with what fate lay in store for them.
Near Charing Cross, a small group of the prisoners was herded into an inn called the Swan. The rest were marched further along the Strand until they reached the King’s Head.
‘Better quarters than Hell, at least,’ said Waller, who was walking next to John.
‘Quiet, you,’ said a soldier, striking him on the head with the butt of his musket.
Somehow that blow, more than all the rest of the misery and humiliation they had suffered since yesterday morning, brought home to John the real danger they faced. That a common soldier should strike a hero of the Parliamentary army with impunity could have only one meaning. General Sir William Waller and his fellows were friendless and helpless. The Tower or some other prison awaited them. And at the end of it, the hangman’s noose or the executioner’s axe.
Chapter Nine
‘To travel from Hell to the King’s Head is no great journey,’ said John, ‘given the present danger to the king’s own head. A danger we seem likely to share.’
‘Better than to travel from the King’s Head to Hell,’ said Crewe. His face had regained some of its rubicund hue now they were warmed at little. Someone had kindled a fire in the meagre fireplace, where they stood flexing their stiff fingers.
Six of them had been given a small room to share, on the second floor of the inn: Swynfen, Crewe, Massey, Clotworthy, Lane and Prynne. Accommodation would be much better than the previous night, though they would have to sleep three to a bed. The bedding was frayed and worn—this was a servants’ room—but at least it was dry. It was a wretched chamber with a sloping ceiling, in which not one of them could stand upright. Clotworthy, with his bull-like frame, looked as though he would strike out the wall timbers if he failed to keep a watch on where he put his elbows. The inn was surrounded by a solid body of soldiers, so they had no prospect of escaping by the window, as Massey quickly ascertained. Small and slender, he had hoped to wriggle out and climb down the slope of the roof. There was scarcely room here for him to resume his restless pacing. At the door of the chamber, four more armed men were posted. Someone had taken a deal of trouble to make sure they were secure.
Care had also been taken in dividing them amongst the bed chambers. The Provost Marshal had a new list which he consulted as he ordered them to their rooms. The main feature of it, as far as John could judge, was to separate the senior army officers. All were hardened battle veterans. The maker of the list—Ireton, for sure—wanted to prevent them pooling their military skills to effect an escape. Space in the inn was limited, however, so through some oversight Massey and Clotworthy were confined in the same room.
‘You may buy food from the innkeeper,’ said the Provost Marshal, ‘and it will be brought to your chambers. You must keep to your rooms, except when you use the privy. Do not think that is a route to escape. You’ll be accompanied by an armed musketeer at all times.’
This order called forth some ribald replies from the prisoners, who were cheered at the prospect of beds and food. Shut into their chamber, John and his companions put their heads together.
‘Have we the chinks for food?’ asked John, pulling out his own purse.
Some had more, some less. None had set out for Parliament the previous morning with more than a handful of money.
‘I put the motion,’ said John, ‘that we make a common purse of what we have, so we may all share equally in food and drink. None of us is carrying enough to bribe the guards to let him escape.’
The others cheerfully agreed. Crewe and Clotworthy, who knew him well, probably guessed that his motive was to provide for Prynne, whose long fight for the rights of Englishmen had beggared him. Indeed, he had no more than two sixpences and a ha’penny to add to the common purse. The guards at the door agreed to send one of the servants of the inn to deal with them. When the man came, he eyed them curiously, particularly, it seemed, Thomas Lane, who had recovered from his fainting fit and seemed determined not to yield to weakness again.
‘I’ll fetch your food and drink as quickly as I can, gentlemen,’ said the tapman, ‘but we’re all of a pother in the kitchen, with thirty of you gentlemen, as I understand, and all the soldiers besides. The master has sent out for more pies to the cookhouse in the Strand, and the maids are stewing up a deal of beef and onions.’
The prisoners sat on the two beds like a row of hungry fledglings, their mouths watering, for the man had carried in on his clothes the succulent aroma of roasting onions. He was as good as his word, returning not more than half an hour later with a great tray laden with steaming dishes, and followed by a small kitchen boy carrying a flagon of ale and six pewter tankards. Once the boy was despatched downstairs again, the tapman dragged in a chest from the hall to serve as a table between the two beds and laid out the stewed beef and ale. He took care to shut the chamber door, and when the prisoners had begun to eat, with more haste than manners, he leaned over towards Lane, who was sitting at the foot of one of the beds.
‘Master Lane, sir? Do you remember me?’
Lane looked up in surprise and studied the man.
‘Aye, your face is somewhat familiar, but I can’t bring your name to mind, nor where I knew you.’
‘’Tis a good many years now, sir. Twenty years ago, at least, long before all our present troubles. I used to work in your chambers at the Inner Temple, as a messenger and apprentice clerk. I wasn’t above thirteen years old at the time. Jacob Waters is the name, sir. By now I’d hoped to be a lawyer’s clerk myself, but it wasn’t to be. In these evil times a man must make shift to earn his bread however he may.’
‘Aye, of course I recall you now. Young Jacob! But you’ve changed, man.’
Jacob nodded, running his finger down a deep scar in his cheek.
‘I got this at the siege of Bristol. And my hair has darkened. I used to have hair red as a thatch roof on fire.’
‘Well, Jacob,’ said Lane, shaking him by the hand, ‘I hope you do well here.’
‘Well enough. We’ve a good master, and most of the time this is one of the finest inns in Westminster or the City, as I’m sure you gentlemen know. We’ll do our best for you. None of us are happy about this business. Anything I can do to help . . .’
‘Two things we need,’ said John. ‘News of the outside world, for we’ve spent long hours locked in a deep cellar. And some means of sending word to our families.’
Jacob sat down on the floor and clasped his arms about his knees.
‘There’s a curfew imposed since nightfall,’ he said, ‘but tomorrow I can send the boy with letters to your families. As for news of what’s happening, I’ve heard a great deal discussed this day, with all the coming and going in the taproom. Where to begin?’
‘When we reached the Palace of Westminster yesterday morning,’ said Massey, ‘the London Trained Bands were nowhere to be seen. Why had they deserted their posts?’
‘They did not desert!’ Jacob said. ‘They were met by the Model Army, barring their path to Westminster with drawn swords. To prevent bloodshed, Major-General Skippon turned them back to the City. Then comes word this afternoon that the Commons have voted the Trained Bands be disbanded and the army be put in charge of London.’
‘It wasn’t the Commons that voted this,’ said Prynne angrily. ‘All the good men have been t
urned out of the Commons. This was some cowardly rump of the lawfully elected House.’
‘Beg pardon, sir. That’s quite right. Folk say that yesterday no more than eighty were allowed into the House, and many of those are so angry, they’ve withdrawn themselves. They’ve vowed they won’t take their places until you prisoners are released.’
‘God reward them,’ said Clotworthy, through a mouthful of beef and onions. ‘And what has become of Noll Cromwell in all this? He should have reached London days ago, yet he comes not. I can’t believe he’s ignorant of this treason. Ireton may have taken charge, but he wouldn’t act against Cromwell’s wishes.’
‘Didn’t you know?’ said Jacob. ‘General Cromwell reached Whitehall last night. It must have been after you were cast in prison. Today he went to Parliament. He was fêted and praised by this—what did you call it, sir?’ He turned to Prynne.
‘A rump. An arse. The nether end of . . .’
‘Aye, this “rump” of a House. Afterwards, if what I heard is right, he went back to Whitehall to meet the Army Council.’
‘So that’s what the Army Council was doing, while we kicked our heels, cold and hungry, at Whitehall,’ said John bitterly. ‘Singing the praises of Cromwell for the siege of Pontefract, which any junior captain could have commanded. I’ll wager they feasted him with more than burnt wine and biscuits.’
Jacob cast puzzled glance at him, then pondered what other news he could tell them.
‘It’s said Cromwell sleeps in the king’s bed at Whitehall Palace,’ he said, with awe in his voice. ‘Can he do such a thing?’
‘He can,’ said Prynne, who, even in these dire straits, was a stickler for language. ‘And he may, for now the supreme power is in the hands of the army.’
‘The army. . .’ said John, who was worried for his family, ‘are they misbehaving?’
Jacob pulled a face, showing what he thought of the army.
‘People are terrified of what they’ll do. The soldiers mock and jeer at any who show their faces in the streets. They’re helping themselves to goods from men’s shops, without a penny payment. They’ve sacked some men’s houses, and not just the rich, neither. And they’ve no respect even for the house of God. ’Tis said they ripped out panelling and choir stalls from St Paul’s Cathedral itself and made a bonfire with them, to cook their meat and warm their shanks.’
‘While we lay frozen and starving in a damp cellar,’ said Crewe harshly.
‘And where’s the Lord General all this time?’ asked Massey. ‘None of this bears the stamp of Fairfax’s character, yet everything is being done in his name.’
‘I was told by one of the servants from Whitehall Palace,’ said Jacob, ‘who supped here this evening, that Fairfax hasn’t attended any of the meetings of the Army Council there. He’s been riding about the city, arranging quartering for his soldiers, mostly in empty buildings and warehouses. To do him credit, he’s tried to spare the common citizens the burden of quartering in their own houses. But we’ve all been ordered to hand over blankets and sheets, and mattresses and bolsters, that the men may sleep in more comfort.’
The prisoners exchanged angry glances at this, so different from their own treatment the previous night.
‘I agree with you, Massey,’ said John thoughtfully. ‘I don’t see Tom Fairfax’s hand in these arrests and exclusions of the Commons. Black Tom cares for his men and cares nothing for politics, whilst Ireton cares for politics and power—he cares for the men only as an instrument to his purpose. Yet where Ireton acts, Cromwell’s hand guides.’
By Friday morning, Francis was clearly recovering from his illness. Anne decided to allow him out of his bed, for the chamber was bitterly cold, and Peter carried him down to the parlour, where Patience had made him up a bed of sorts by pushing two chairs together beside a good fire.
Everyone in the household was still nervous, but there had been no further trouble from the soldiers. Still no word had come from John. Anne was sure now that he must have been imprisoned. If he were free, he would have contrived to send word to her somehow, knowing she would be distraught when he had been gone for two nights. It was impossible to discover any information about the missing men. Anne had sent Ned round to the houses of John’s closest friends: Crewe, Clotworthy, Fiennes, Birch, Stephens. All had vanished. None of their households knew what had become of them. Only at Fiennes’s lodging was there a variation on the story. Ned was told that on Wednesday afternoon, one of Lord Say and Sele’s servants had come round to Fiennes’s rooms and packed up some of his belongings, but he had said nothing of Fiennes’s whereabouts.
Filled with foreboding, Anne could not put off a decision much longer. John had said she might have to leave London, but he had not exactly ordered her to do so. He had warned of the danger to her and to the children, but she decided she would wait a few more days until Francis was stronger. And whatever John might say, she would not travel to Staffordshire without Dick and Nan. In this she was prepared to disobey him, despite her misgivings, for she was terrified at the thought of leaving them behind in London, with both parents gone. Who could guess what evils would befall them in the city under military occupation?
As soon as Anne had seen Francis settled in the parlour, she sent Peter to hire a hackney carriage for the day and explained to Patience what she planned to do.
‘I’ll leave you in charge of the household. Keep to the house, and I don’t think there will be anything to fear. Perhaps the master will be home before I am.’ She tried to sound cheerful, but she put no faith in her own words.
‘I’ll go first to Charterhouse for Dick. He can walk to the Colemans’ house in Holborn from there, while I go on to Hackney to fetch Nan in the carriage, then I’ll collect him on the way home. I think I’ll take Peter with me. He could do little against any attack, but a man’s presence alone may be some protection. Don’t expect me back before supper.’
‘But, mistress!’ Patience looked appalled. ‘There are soldiers roaming the streets everywhere. Think on the many miles from Westminster to Hackney, and the roads covered with snow and ice. It won’t be safe. Please, I beg of you, don’t go! Peter can fetch Dick. Surely Nan will be safe enough where she is?’
Anne shook her head. Once she had allowed herself to think of having the two eldest children safe within her sight, she could not abandon the idea. Alone, without the protection of their parents, they might be seized as pawns in this cruel game of power. Their schools could do nothing to protect them against armed soldiers. Her heart was already beating fearfully at the thought of the journey across the occupied city, but she must fetch the children home.
‘And the curfew!’ cried Patience. ‘What of the curfew? It starts at nightfall, Sam Carpenter said, and this is the darkest time of year, with the sun setting early. You cannot be back by dark.’
‘Sam made his way here safe enough after curfew,’ said Anne stubbornly.
‘Sam,’ Patience pointed out, ‘was a young man alone, on foot, who could slip into a doorway if the guard marched by. You’ll be a woman great with child, an old man, a boy, and a young girl, travelling in a hackney carriage. You could as soon hide as an elephant. And suppose your hackney driver refuses to go further when night falls? You could be abandoned on the streets.’
Anne knew that everything Patience said was true, but she continued to shake her head.
‘I will bring my children home,’ was all she would say.
Anne and Peter started their journey shortly afterwards, loading the carriage with blankets and footwarmers containing hot coals. Peter carried a basket of food, and Anne had brought extra cloaks for the children. The driver was a man of middle age who looked reliable, although he said little, and did not climb down from his box to help with stowing their baggage. The carriage was one of the larger sort, fully enclosed and drawn by two horses. Anne had been afraid Peter would have to settle for one of the half-open carriages, in which they would have been frozen before they ev
en reached the City.
The driver took a route by smaller streets to the west of Parliament, avoiding the army patrols, and came into King Street a little beyond the Abbey. Anne peered back through the window towards Parliament, where there was a considerable stir of infantry and troopers. Was John somewhere in there, held within the Palace of Westminster itself? As they reached Charing Cross and headed up the Strand towards the City, the horses began to trot; the road here was almost clear, from all the tramping of feet. The snow that remained was churned into a dirty slush, pocked with horse droppings and stained yellow where chamberpots had been tipped into the street. It was no longer snowing, but a fierce wind was blowing, and she was glad of the footwarmer and her heavy fur muff.
As they neared the City, the carriage was obliged to slow almost to a stop. Troops of horse clattered down the street, forcing carriages out of the way and knocking pedestrians into the filthy gutters. Usually the streets were crowded with hawkers and stalls—hot pie men, candlemakers, watercarriers, sellers of fine lace and cheap boots, knife-grinders, basket-makers, bird sellers, women with pickled eels and salted fish, men with bunches of brooms over their shoulders and faggots on their backs, milkmaids with their buckets, bakery lasses with their trays of buns, peddlers of ribbons and silks and pins and knickknacks, men shouting the value of their wares, and sturdy girls carolling their street cries. Today the only citizens on the streets scurried along, heads down. On one corner Anne saw a band of six or eight soldiers looting a clock-maker’s shop, while the terrified owner, standing in the snow in his shirtsleeves, pleaded with them to spare him. Peter eyed his mistress uneasily. His cheeks were sunken and his skin frail and translucent as rubbed parchment, blotched with the dark spots of age. Anne smiled back at the old man encouragingly.
‘We’ve nothing with us that’s worth their stealing. Don’t worry, Peter. I’m sure they won’t trouble us.’
She had put on a simple country gown of brown kersey which usually she wore only about the house in London, in the hope she might be taken for an upper servant or the wife of a modest tradesman. She wore no jewels or lace, only a plain white kerchief pinned around her shoulders. The fur muff, however, might give her away, so she wrapped a blanket around herself, covering muff and all, as the driver turned left up Chancery Lane and so past Lincoln’s Inn.