by Ann Swinfen
Where Chancery Lane met Holborn, the carriage came to a full stop. Peering out of the window, Anne could see a crowd of men, but not the reason why they could not drive on.
‘Step out, for a moment, Peter,’ she said, ‘And see what’s to-do. But don’t get left behind!’
Peter climbed back in a few minutes later.
‘There’s a carriage gone into the ditch as it turned the corner, mistress,’ he said, wiping his streaming nose, which had turned blue in the short time he had been outside. ‘They’re trying to move it, but the traces are broken and one of the horses run off. They’ll be some time yet.’
‘Well, pour us a sup of ale, then,’ said Anne, ‘to cheer us while we wait.’
It must have been the best part of an hour before they were on their way again. Chafing at the delay, Anne had begun to wish she had walked the distance to the Colemans’ house and told the driver to catch her up there. By the time she was embracing Grace in her front parlour, it was past noon. She explained her plan quickly.
‘Aye, of course Dick may come here until you can fetch him,’ said Grace, ‘but I wish you wouldn’t go all the way out to Hackney. If Charles were here, he would surely go in your stead, but he’s summoned to General Cromwell at Whitehall, to arrange some music for a banquet tonight.’
‘General Cromwell is reigning at Whitehall Palace, is he? It seems little time since the man was but the captain of a troop of horse,’ said Anne sharply. ‘And I thought he was still in the north.’
Grace shrugged her shoulders. ‘It’s all one to me. All I know is that Charles and the babe and I will starve if he doesn’t ply his trade. If you’re a musician you must smile and smile, no matter what your heart is saying.’
Anne knew that Grace and Charles were half royalist, and could not blame them. Whatever Charles might think of his royal namesake as a man, he had had a good position at court. All that was now lost.
‘And is there truly no word of my brother?’ said Grace. ‘We heard there had been arrests at the House, but we thought it would just be a few who spoke for the king. And Prynne, of course, who’s never learned to curb his tongue. But not loyal and sound Parliamentmen like John.’
‘John has been gone for two days and two nights now. I’ve had no word at all.’ Twisting her fingers together, Anne whispered, ‘I fear the Tower.’
Suddenly, alone with Grace, she could no longer keep up her brave pretence. She dropped into a chair and covered her face with her hands. Unable to control the terror she had been trying to hide from herself, she began to sob helplessly. Grace put her arms around her as the grief shook her bodily.
‘Anne, my dear,’ said Grace. ‘I’m sure he’ll be safe. They’ll not dare to hurt Members of Parliament. Such men as John aren’t small men, their names are known. They have powerful friends in London, and large bodies of supporters at home in the country.’
‘It’s not John alone,’ Anne gasped. ‘It’s all our friends—Crewe, Fiennes, Stephens, Clotworthy. They’ve all vanished! No one knows where they are. They must be imprisoned somewhere. Or worse.’
‘When Charles comes home,’ said Grace firmly, ‘we’ll send him to find out what he can. Or he may already have heard something in Whitehall. Come, Anne, you must not give way like this. Think of the baby. Dry your eyes, and I’ll tell them in the kitchen to hurry forward dinner. You must stay here and give up this idea of going to Hackney.’
‘I must go!’ Anne clutched at her sister-in-law’s hand. ‘What will happen to the children if John is in prison and I must leave London?’
‘They can come to us. They’ll be safe here.’
But Anne was not to be persuaded. Stubbornly, she refused all of Grace’s suggestions. She would not even stay to take dinner, although she drank a little soup and ate some bread. Half an hour after she had arrived, she was on her way again. Peter and the driver had taken early dinner with the servants in the kitchen, so that Peter was more cheerful as they drove the short distance to Charterhouse.
‘The driver thinks the road out into the country will be free of soldiers,’ he said. ‘They’re mostly about the City and Westminster.’
‘There’s the gatehouse of the school just ahead,’ said Anne. ‘You may wait in the coach. I don’t expect to stay long here.’
But she had miscalculated. Previously, John had brought Dick to school or fetched him home. Anne had only accompanied them once, and on that occasion had not met the Master. Arriving now, unescorted, she felt a brief spasm of unease as she confronted the handsome building, constructed like an Oxford college around a series of quadrangles, with its own chapel. It had been built some forty years earlier with a bequest from Thomas Sutton, a man from the north country who had made his money somewhat grubbily from coal and money-lending. He had squared all with his conscience, however, by endowing a hospital—a home for elderly worthies who had fallen into straitened means in their declining years. In addition a school provided for forty ‘poor’ scholars: not the poor of London’s gutters, but the sons of professional families without large estates. Their fathers were physicians and lawyers and clergymen, the younger branches of gentry families. These ‘gownboys’ were entirely supported from the foundation. The school’s reputation for excellence, however, had soon attracted the same number of ‘townboys’—commoners whose families paid their fees.
Dick was a townboy and would go on from Charterhouse to Cambridge, like his father, or to Oxford, which John favoured for his sons. A generation ago, Dick would have been ready to move on to university now, at fifteen, as his father had done, but in the new fashion he would start university later, at seventeen or even eighteen.
Anne was ushered in through the gatehouse by a servant of the school, who peered beyond her at the hackney carriage, clearly put out that a woman on her own should pass the threshold of this male establishment. He looked about the outer court, then crooked a finger at a small boy in a gown who was crossing towards the Master’s Court.
Servant and child held a hurried conversation in whispers, then the servant, a dignified man in livery, made off as fast as he could towards the Master’s House. The small boy stood in front of Anne, regarding her solemnly. Clearly, he had been left to guard this dangerous female, in case she should misbehave herself.
‘Are you going to keep me standing outside in the cold?’ Anne asked, pleasantly enough.
The child looked horrified. He gulped and stared about, but there was no one else to ask for help.
‘Well, I am afraid I am not going to wait here in the wind.’
She lifted her skirts and marched firmly towards the Master’s House, following the route the servant had taken. The child, who could not have been more than eight, trotted behind her, making little mews of protest. He flung himself in front of her as she reached the door of the house.
‘You cannot go in there!’ He seemed terrified.
Anne took pity on him.
‘Very well, I shall wait in the Chapel. Surely no one will refuse me the comfort of God’s house?’
She turned and crossed through a passageway to the Chapel Court and into the Chapel itself. She was glad to sit down out of the wind, although it was almost as cold here as it was outside. At least the benches did not jolt and toss her about like the seats in the carriage. She sank to her knees and offered up a brief, formless prayer that her enterprise this day might succeed. The child had followed her in and stood on one leg halfway between her seat and the Chapel door, as if he could not decide whether he should continue to guard her or go to fetch help. Anne sat back, quietly studying the tomb of Thomas Sutton, which to her eyes resembled nothing so much as a rather flamboyant fireplace, bedecked with noble figures and a coat-of-arms, with a frieze depicting the pensioners and scholars of Charterhouse.
‘Mistress Swynfen!’ The Master came hurrying in to the Chapel, and the child slipped away into the shadows. A man of magnificent height, he bore down on her like an avenging fury, the black wings of his gown flapping. ‘Wh
at are you doing here? ’Tis not seemly that a woman should come unaccompanied into the school.’
He was clearly very angry. Moreover, his bold stare at her pregnant shape said, No woman in your condition should dare to do so. She felt a rising anger herself that he should address her in such a manner, and that he should call her a woman in that ill-mannered way.
‘A gentleman,’ she said icily, ‘would not keep the mother of one of his students standing outside in the winter’s cold.’
He was not going to apologise.
‘What do you want here?’ he demanded.
‘I’ve come for my son Richard. I have decided to fetch him home early for Christmas.’
Even to herself it sounded ridiculous. However, she did not dare reveal that she planned to leave London as soon as possible. The Master, she knew, was a Royalist, and his hold on his position was precarious. If John was in trouble with those who had seized power, a man such as the Master might try to curry favour by reporting her planned escape.
‘Impossible. He is occupied with his lessons. We do not allow any boy to leave early at the whim of the parents.’
‘This is no whim.’ Anne gripped her hands together. They were shaking, but she must not let this man see any sign of weakness. ‘It is our wish that he should come home now.’
‘But I see no “we” here,’ said the Master sarcastically. ‘I see only a woman. Do you have your husband’s authority for this?’
‘Of course.’
‘His written authority? I might consider handing the boy over to his father. Or if you had brought your husband’s written authority, I might, in extraordinary circumstances, have done so. But—to a woman alone? I think not, madam.’
He turned and began to walk towards the door, his gown sweeping the dusty floor behind him.
‘Wait!’ Anne cried. ‘At least let me see my son.’
He stopped and regarded her coldly. ‘Very well. You may have five minutes’ speech with him. Wait here.’
He kept her waiting another half hour before Dick tumbled into the Chapel, followed by a frowning young man also wearing an academic gown, who must be an assistant schoolmaster. Dick rushed to her and hugged her.
‘The Master said you’d come to take me home, but he won’t let you. Is something amiss, Mama?’
As quickly as she could, she told him what had been happening during the last week, and what she intended.
‘And now I can’t tell what I should do!’ She hugged him again. He had grown since she had seen him last; he was taller than she, almost a man’s height, but the bony wrists projecting from the sleeves of his shirt were touchingly childlike.
‘Go and fetch Nan,’ said Dick, firmly. ‘And take her back to St Ann’s Lane. I think you should go home to Swinfen, unless Father sends you word not to go. You’ll all be safe there. Have no fear for me. When they let us out of here for Christmas, I’ll go to Aunt Coleman and the Doctor. I can always make my own way back to Staffordshire.’
‘Nay, you mustn’t do that. It would be much too dangerous.’
He laughed, but would promise nothing. Anne was afraid of what he might do. He had always been a bold, adventurous boy. The thought that he might undertake the journey on his own only increased her worries. But before she could argue with him any further, the young schoolmaster sent Dick back to his lessons and seized Anne rudely by the arm to escort her briskly out of the gate, shaking and sick with anger and humiliation at her treatment. The daring spirit in which she had embarked upon this hazardous journey was seeping away. The prospect of the trip out to Hackney and the long drive back, with danger in the streets and the risk of breaking curfew, suddenly rolled over her like a dark wave. She hesitated on the threshold of the school, trying to gather her tattered courage about her.
Peter and the hackney driver were looking across the road at her expectantly. The driver had taken the opportunity to give the horses their nosebags, which he now unstrapped and stowed under his seat. He seemed anxious.
‘There be a storm brewing over in the east, mistress,’ he said. ‘’Twill be upon us before we can drive to Hackney and back.’
Anne turned and looked where he pointed towards the Thames estuary. Great black thunderclouds were building up all along the horizon. It might mean heavy rain or, cold as it was, another snow storm. She took a deep breath. She could not turn back now.
‘We’d best make haste to be on our way, then,’ she said. Peter handed her into the carriage and tucked the blankets around her. She was grateful for their warmth, for she had grown very chilled in the courts and chapel of the school. Her back had also begun to ache with a dull, constant pain. The drag of the baby’s weight was like a tight cord pulling on her spine. She kept shifting in the seat, but no position was comfortable, and as they set off again the jolting of the carriage sent vicious jabs through her back and stomach. She turned to look out of the window, to avoid Peter’s anxious glances. The strength of the anger knotted in her chest frightened her. The Master’s words echoed in her head, and with his refusal to release Dick her plan for the family’s escape was already slipping through her fingers.
The driver turned north along the road to Kingsland and soon they had left the city wall behind them. Despite the roughness of the road, Anne felt more relaxed. There were no more soldiers to be seen. The fresh country air rushed in at the partly open window as the carriage rattled along over the frozen mud of the country road, past hamlets clustered around parish churches and small farms tucked into south-facing slopes. This was a prosperous area, for it was London’s garden, having long provided fresh milk and meat for the capital. In recent years, many of the more far-seeing farmers had been experimenting with Dutch methods of market gardening, growing vegetables intensively for sale in the stalls of London’s markets at Cheapside and Leadenhall. In season, their carts rumbled along this road carrying peas and beans, onions, leeks, asparagus and spinage, even the potatoes first brought in from the Americas fifty years ago.
The farms looked well-kept and comfortable, though the present year could not have been easy for them. Incessant rain had spoiled crops and flooded low-lying land, especially a little further north in Essex, where the siege of Colchester had been burned forever into men’s minds as a misery of bog and down-pouring rain. The wheat harvest had been the poorest for years. The legal size of a penny loaf had been severely reduced as a result, and the price of other foodstuffs had soared. No wonder then that the soldiers were in such a dangerous mood. They wanted pay and the spoils of looting, for back at home in the country they would find little enough income or food from the land.
Even here, now that she looked more closely, there were signs. At one of the farms, two children were swinging listlessly on a gate, a boy of six or seven, a girl perhaps two years older. Their clothes were neat and clean, but their faces were pinched with hunger. Anne waved to them as the carriage drove past, but they simply gazed at her with lacklustre eyes and made no acknowledgement.
How different it had been when she and John had first brought Nan to Perwicks’ school last spring! It was a balmy day, with the May all in blossom in the hedgerows. Nan kept crying out in delight at the lambs skipping in the fields, leaping straight up in the air as if they danced on springs.
‘Have you forgotten the lambs at home?’ Anne asked her. ‘At Swinfen and Thickbroome?’
‘I think I remember,’ said Nan. ‘Oh, but Mama, they’re lovely! Could I have one as a pet?’
‘Not in London.’ Anne laughed.
‘The tragedy of lambs,’ said John, ‘is that they must all grow into sheep. Should you want a fat, slow sheep for a pet, Nankins?’
‘I shouldn’t mind,’ she said stoutly. ‘I should love it just the same. Can I have one when we go home?’
‘Home to Swinfen?’ said her father. ‘You shall have as many as you like, my pet. You shall have your own flock on Packington Moor.’
Anne knew that was not what Nan had in mind, but she diverted her by pointing to
the birds busy nesting in the hedgerows and orchard trees. Her own heart was somewhat lightened by the beauty of Hackney, even though it ached at the thought of leaving her daughter here in the care of strangers. She comforted herself with the thought that the fresh country air up on Hackney Downs would be much better for the child’s health than the smokes and fogs and filthy stench of London, especially with the summer coming on.
Now, the sharp, clean, winter air of the Downs seemed to clear her own head. She was certain there would be no trouble in bringing Nan away from the Perwicks’ school. She had taken an immediate liking to Robert Perwick and his wife, who treated the girls at their school like daughters of their own. There were nearly a hundred pupils, but they knew every one by name. She had seen Mistress Perwick rush to a child who had tumbled over and carry her off herself to bathe the cut knee and comfort her with sweetmeats. Could Nan have come home from school every night, Anne would have been perfectly happy with the arrangement.
Anne herself would be treated with respect here, unlike the humiliation of her reception at Charterhouse. The Perwicks knew her as the wife of an eminent Parliamentarian. And there was the family connection through the Colemans, for the Perwicks’ love of music meant that they welcomed the most distinguished musicians in Europe into their home, including Charles and Edward Coleman. As the prodigious talent of their daughter Susanna developed, the school had become more and more famous as a fount of musical achievement. It was the best school for girls anywhere in England.
They had nearly reached the school now, and the storm was still some way off. On the upper slopes of Hackney Downs, a number of the wealthier London merchants had begun to build themselves country manor houses, where they could retreat in the heat of the London summer. During the outbreak of the plague earlier in the year, more rich men had begun building here, where they and their families could live at a safe distance from infection. The Perwicks’ school was one such manor house, extended with additional wings until it formed a square about a central courtyard. Although elegant, it had none of the chilly and forbidding appearance of Charterhouse.