by Ann Swinfen
Anne climbed down a little stiffly from the coach at the front door.
‘Drive round to the kitchens,’ she said to Peter, ‘and beg some fresh coals for the footwarmers. I fear it will be a cold journey back. And see if they’ll heat a brick or two for the driver’s feet, for he’ll be much colder than we will.’
A pretty maid in a lavender gown and lace cap opened the door to Anne and bobbed a curtsey. Anne explained her business. She could hear music coming from somewhere nearby.
‘I’m afraid everyone is at the concert, mistress,’ the maid said, nodding in the direction of the sounds. ‘Will you care to join them? Or I could bring you something to refresh you in the parlour.’
There would be no chance to speak to the Perwicks until the concert ended, nor could Anne snatch Nan away in the midst of it. She would be obliged to wait until the music finished.
‘I’ve no wish to disturb them,’ she said, ‘but I would dearly like to hear the music.’
The girl smiled cheerfully. ‘Oh, ’twill be no disturbance. I can slip you in at the back of the room, if you’ll follow me this way.’
The concert was taking place in the great hall of the original manor house, a beautiful engilded double cube room with a painted ceiling depicting the muses cavorting amongst pink clouds and cherubs garlanded with laurel and oak leaves. A considerable audience was seated on fragile gilt chairs, and Anne was able to slide in at the end of a row during the applause for a piece played on the virginals. The audience, she supposed, must consist of the Perwicks’ neighbours from the surrounding great houses, unless some of the girls’ parents had travelled out from London. Given the situation, with the army in occupation, this seemed unlikely, and indeed she herself had heard nothing of a concert taking place. She knew from Grace that private concerts like this were regularly held, performed mostly by the older girls, because the Perwicks believed this taught them confidence and poise. The concerts were also an opportunity to hear eleven-year-old Susanna play and sing, without putting her forward too boldly on her own, for she was a quiet and modest child.
A large group of girls now filed in at the far end of the room, led by Charles’s brother, Edward Coleman, who smiled and bowed to the audience. He was grandly dressed in a doublet of wine damask with jewelled buttons, white silk breeches, and shoes with buckles of fine goldsmith’s work.
‘The girls will now sing a new Christmas chorale which I have composed,’ he announced. ‘This will be its first performance.’
The girls stood demurely, with their hands clasped in front of them and their eyes on Edward Coleman. And there, in the front row with the younger girls, was Nan. She was very like her father—tall for her age, with straight brown hair caught up with ribbons, and thoughtful, deep-set eyes. Anne felt her breath catch in her throat. Nan seemed so self-possessed and distant. Charles lifted his baton, gave a nod to a young man seated at a harpsichord, and they began.
The girls’ voices were piercingly sweet and fresh. To come from the terror of occupied London and John’s disappearance to this joyous music in its idyllic setting high on Hackney Down, was like coming from purgatory to paradise. Anne wanted to lay down the burdens of her aching body and her frantic worries, and simply rest in this place. The music was a physical balm; the sight and sound of the girls as they sang was healing to the very soul.
After the chorale, Edward Coleman announced that the last performance in that day’s concert would be a violin solo, accompanied by himself on the harpsichord and played by Susanna Perwick. There was a murmur of anticipation amongst the audience, then a hush fell as the child came in.
She was not much taller than Nan, though she was three years older. Her looks were striking: dark curls set off a curiously pale complexion with a flush of pink in her cheeks. The most remarkable thing about her was her eyes. Large, wide-set and dark, they were bright with fierce intelligence and maturity. Yet her shy smile was that of any nervous child standing up to perform alone in front of an audience of strangers.
As the violin began its sweet song, Anne closed her eyes and felt her body, stiff with the tension of the day, soften and slacken. She did not know the music, yet it spoke to something deep inside her, gay as birdsong at first, engaged in a dance with the harpsichord, then sorrowful, as violin and harpsichord cried out to each other of partings and death. Sorrow welled up in Anne’s throat as she remembered her last parting from John. Why had she left him thus, in anger, running away from him?
There was a moment’s pause in the music, like an indrawn breath. And then the two instruments came together in a piercing harmony, a nocturne, a nunc dimittis of the old religion. Regret, acceptance, healing. But Anne crouched in her corner at the back of the room, her face turned away. Music tore down all defences, exposing all vulnerability. Inside her head she howled with grief. Would she ever see John again?
When the last notes faded away, there was complete silence in the room, as if no one was breathing, then the clapping began. Some were furtively wiping their eyes, and gazing about them as if woken, at a loss, from some potent dream.
Susanna was hurried away by her mother, and the guests were ushered into a small parlour for refreshment. The girls were nowhere to be seen. Catching sight of the long wall clock in the hallway, Anne realised how little time remained if she were to return home before the curfew. She refused the food and instead went in search of Edward Coleman, whom she found tidying the music in the great hall.
‘Anne!’ He hurried forward and took her by both hands. ‘This is a rare pleasure. I didn’t expect to see you here. Did you mark Nan in the front row of the choir? She has a sweet, true voice.’
‘I knew nothing of the concert,’ said Anne distractedly. ‘I came to fetch Nan home. Oh, Edward, John is arrested, imprisoned perhaps, and I must take the children back to Staffordshire for safety.’
She began to tremble. If only she could resign the responsibility to Edward. It seemed suddenly too great to bear.
‘Anne? When did you last eat? When is the baby due?’
He led her to a chair and forced her to sit still while he fetched wine and cakes for her, then he went in search of Mistress Perwick. Between sips of the strong burgundy, that flowed in her veins with an increase in strength and resolution, Anne explained to them the situation in Westminster and the City, news of which had not yet reached Hackney. As soon as she realised what was afoot, Mistress Perwick sent a maidservant to pack Nan’s belongings and fetch her downstairs. There would be no questioning of Anne’s right to claim her child here.
‘I wish I could come back to Westminster with you,’ said Edward, ‘but I’m expected this evening at Sir Thomas Howard’s levee. I’ll drive with you as far as the city gate, to see you safely inside the wall, and then walk back.’
‘Would you be so kind, Edward?’ Anne pressed his hand. ‘I confess, I’m a little worried about the journey.’ She did not add that the journey across London might well be more dangerous than the country road.
Children’s voices approached along the hallway, talking excitedly. Susanna came in, leading Nan by the hand. Nan ran to hug her mother. One of her hair ribbons had come untied and hung down rakishly over her ear.
‘Did you hear me sing, Mama? I sing in the big choir now. Uncle Edward says I sing truly in tune, and I can read the music very well.’
‘You sang beautifully, dear heart,’ said Anne, ‘but I’m afraid we must hurry away now, to be home before dark. See how black the sky is!’
Nan’s face fell. ‘But I don’t want to go home!’ She ran back and seized Susanna’s hand again. ‘I’m not to come home until Christmas, and that’s a fortnight yet.’ Her lip trembled, and she looked beseechingly at her mother. ‘We’ve so much to do in school before Christmas. I’m to take part in a French play.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Anne, ‘but we must. Papa wants us to go home to Swinfen. We shall be able to spend Christmas with Grandfather and Grandmother.’ She searched her mind for something to please Nan.
‘You’ll see Tray and Belle again. Remember? They were your favourite puppies.’
Huge tears began to pour down Nan’s face, and she stamped her foot. ‘I don’t remember. I don’t remember. I don’t want to go to Swinfen. I want to stay here.’ She flung herself furiously on the floor and began to sob.
Susanna knelt down and put her arms around her.
‘Don’t cry, Nan. It will only be for a little while. I’ll write a letter to you, if you will promise to write back.’
Nan gulped and looked at her wide-eyed. Letters were very, very expensive. She had never received one in all her life.
‘Do you promise me, truly?’
‘Truly. I’ll tell you everything that we’re doing, and you must write to me about your home and your animals.’
After more persuasion, Nan grew calmer and agreed to put on her cloak. Edward, changed out of his finery, carried her to the carriage, while Anne turned to Mistress Perwick.
‘Nan has been very happy here, and I can understand why. You’ve made a little paradise in Hackney, Mistress Perwick.’
Mistress Perwick blushed and took her hands. ‘I’ll pray for you and your family every day, Mistress Swinfen. Surely this madness of the army’s can’t continue? I’m sure your husband will return home soon, and I wish you a safe journey and a safe delivery of the new babe.’
While the Perwicks stood in the doorway to bid her farewell, Anne stooped and kissed Susanna on the cheek. ‘I’m grateful for your kindness to Nan. She couldn’t have a better friend.’
As Edward handed Anne into the carriage and took his seat, the first heavy drops of rain began to fall. Low grey clouds had gathered overhead, borne on by a fierce east wind. When the carriage turned out of the drive and on to the road back to London, a tongue of flame leapt towards the earth from the dense black clouds rolling in from the sea.
‘A thunderstorm in December,’ said Edward. ‘Ominous weather for ominous times.’
The full force of the storm hit them ten minutes later, flinging the carriage sideways like a ship at sea, so that they had to clutch hold of anything firm to stop themselves being thrown in a heap on the floor. Anne sat on one seat with Nan wrapped tightly in blankets beside her, while Edward and Peter faced her from the seat opposite. Nan began to cry again, from fear and from tiredness after the excitement of the day.
‘Now then,’ Edward shouted over the noise of the storm, ‘didn’t I hear tell of a basket of food? Why don’t we have a picnic to cheer ourselves?’
Anne laughed. The rain was driving into the carriage through every crack around the doors and windows. Their teeth were almost shaken from their heads by the jolting of the carriage from the ruts in the road and the buffets of the wind. They had to shout to make themselves heard. The horses, frightened by the storm, jerked nervously at the traces, trying to break into a gallop to escape the terrible thing that was looming over their heads and flashing and roaring all about them. The driver was swearing worse than a Smithfield butcher as he struggled to control them. It seemed hardly the occasion for a picnic. But Edward was right. A picnic would divert Nan’s attention and give them all something to think about other than their imminent peril.
Peter opened the basket and handed out pies and bread, but pouring from the flask of ale defeated him.
‘Leave it until the worst of the storm passes,’ said Anne. ‘It can’t continue like this for long.’
She leaned forward to reach into the basket, and was thrown half on to the floor and half into Edward’s lap.
‘Careful!’ he cried. ‘Sister, you shouldn’t be travelling like this, in your present condition.’
‘I’ve no choice. Look in the basket. I’m sure Hester put in some of Nan’s favourite raspberry cakes.’
Consoled by the fruit comfits, Nan curled up with her head in Anne’s lap while the lightning moved away to the south. Coming past Bedlam Hospital to the city wall at last, they found Bishopsgate barred by a troop of soldiers. The driver pulled up the horses, and Edward climbed out to see what was amiss. After a few minutes, he returned with a cornet of horse.
‘You see,’ said Edward. ‘Nothing but a child, and my sister, who’s near her time, and the manservant. No spies or Royalists here.’
The cornet climbed into the carriage and poked amongst the blankets, as if he thought someone might be hidden there, then climbed down again.
‘And yourself?’
‘I’m returning to Hackney. I only travelled this far to see them safely inside the city wall.’
The cornet kept them waiting while he went away to consult another officer. Edward tried to shelter under the archway of the gate.
‘Edward,’ Anne called to him, ‘you’ll be like a drowned kitten before you are a quarter of the way back to Hackney, walking in this downpour. Won’t you come with us? I can leave you with Charles and Grace.’
Edward shook his head, and the rain sprayed off the brim of his hat like a Catherine-wheel.
‘I dare not offend my patron, Anne. We musicians are beggars these days.’
The cornet returned and said the carriage might proceed into the city. Edward waved a farewell. The carriage drove forward onto the cobbled street and Anne watched Edward disappearing into the driving rain, as he headed back up the hill to Hackney.
Chapter Ten
That first morning at the King’s Head, after the prisoners had breakfasted on small beer, bread, and cheese, Jacob the tapman was true to his word, bringing them paper for their letters, with a supply of ink and quills. Gentlemen accustomed to writing on nothing less than the best laid linen paper from Italy seized the coarse grey stuff on which the innkeeper wrote his accounts with the eagerness of a Bankside playwright.
‘I can’t be spared to deliver your letters myself,’ said Jacob, ‘but I’ll send the boy. It may take some while. He’s not as sharp in his wits as some, and he can’t read. He must take them one at a time, with careful directions for each, or they’ll all be thrown into a caddle.’
The prisoners agreed readily to this; any communication with the outside world after two full days of silence was welcome, on whatever terms. Those confined to the other rooms in the inn had been promised the chance to send out letters as well, so it would take the child most of the day to carry them all. It was not clear whether the guards knew what was afoot, but John suspected that, with a little free beer and friendly talk, Jacob had persuaded them to look the other way.
His letter was the fourth to be despatched from their room. He had kept it short, for it would do Anne no good to hear the details of his confinement.
Wee are now held at the King’s Head in the Strand, he wrote, & are comfortable enough, but wee must buy our own food & I brought little money away with mee. I beg yu, send mee a bundle of fresh linen that I may look & feel less of a dirty rogue. Send what else yu please for my comfort, but noe more than I can easily carry, for if wee are mov’d again, I wou’d not wish to bee burden’d.
He hoped that Anne would understand from these cryptic remarks that he needed money, and would send some concealed amongst the clothes.
Do not come yurself, for none is allow’d, & I wou’d not have yu insult’d by the soldiers. I trust yu remember that matter wee spoke of on Sunday last, & I bid yu carry it out as swiftly as may bee. Kiss the children from their father, & know, deare heart, that I am always yur most loving husband,
John Swynfen
The hours passed slowly. No fire had been lit this morning, and the room was dank and chill, the condensation from their breath steaming up the small window. Some of the prisoners spent the time in reading their Bibles. Others conferred about what representations they should make to the Army Council, if ever they were given the opportunity to present their case. Prynne, as always, was loudest of these, declaring that they must draw up a document protesting at their treatment.
‘The elected Parliament has voted freely to accept the Treaty of Newport as a basis for negotiating with the king,’ he said, tediously repea
ting yet again what they all knew. ‘The imprisonment of Members of Parliament who’ve done no more than their duty is illegal, treasonable and contrary to the natural rights of Englishmen.’
John sat on the end of the bed nearest the window, watching the many troop movements up and down the Strand, so that he was the least surprised when Jacob, bringing in their dinner soon after the church clocks had sounded three, was full of army news gleaned in the street and the taproom.
‘The army has taken over London entirely,’ he said grimly, as the prisoners settled to their food. ‘They’ve even dragged in the artillery. They’ve seized all the larger churches for stabling and quarters. Fairfax has issued a public proclamation, claiming that he’s justified in confiscating bedding forcibly for the soldiers. They’re taking it from all, even the poorest, who have barely a single blanket to cover a whole family. I didn’t think Black Tom would do such a thing.’
‘His soldiers always take first place with him,’ said Massey. ‘All other men come a long way behind.’
‘And that’s not the whole story,’ said Jacob. ‘Hewson’s regiment have been ordered in to the City to seize all Parliament’s money.’
They stopped eating at that, and stared at him in horror.
‘They can’t do that!’ cried Crewe. ‘The money is laid aside for the navy, for arming against foreign attack, for the repair of buildings and ports damaged in the war, for the support of widows and the poor—’
‘Aye,’ said John bitterly, ‘it’s not the soldiers alone who have a call on the public purse, but it’s they alone have the swords and guns to take it by force. The treasuries have their own armed guards.’ He turned to Jacob. ‘Has it come to fighting, then? Have the guards defended the treasuries? Has blood been shed?’