by Ann Swinfen
Anne shook her head. Clutching hold of Patience’s arm, she struggled to her feet.
‘Nay. I could never forgive myself if I did not do this thing for my husband. I’ll fetch the coins. Do you light more candles, so that we can see what we are about.’
She said nothing to Patience of the other part of John’s message: I trust yu remember that matter wee spoke of on Sunday last, & I bid yu carry it out as swiftly as may bee.
On the following day about noon, John was told that a man had been sent to him with a bundle. The prisoners had been allowed a little more freedom today. Under guard they were taken down from their separate chambers to the common dining room of the inn, where they were given breakfast without having to purchase it themselves. Someone at army headquarters must have realised at last that provision must be made for the prisoners. It seemed that, in their rush to arrest their political enemies, the Army Council had not planned its strategy for more than a few hours ahead. With over forty men on their hands, many with powerful friends, they must at least make a pretence of treating their unlawfully arrested prisoners with common decency.
This new concession, the freedom to move about the inn although constantly under the eyes of the guards, had lightened John’s heart. It might be that, little by little, Cromwell and his cronies were relaxing their grip. The news that a bundle had been sent to him cheered him further. Anne must, after all, have received his letter and this was her answer.
At the door of the inn stood Peter, truculently eyeing the men who barred his way with drawn swords. He was gaunt with fatigue, and seemed more bowed and shrunken than ever before.
‘Peter!’ John stepped forward to reach out to the man, but immediately two of the guards grabbed him by the arms. ‘Is all well at home?’
‘All’s well, master. The mistress asked me particularly to tell you that young Francis is quite recovered, except for a slight cough, which she reckons to be nothing for concern. He’ll be playing the devil with the other lads by next week.’
As an old family servant, Peter never hesitated to speak freely, and John smiled at the expression on his face.
‘They’ve been plaguing you, have they? I remember how I hated it myself, shut up indoors in foul winter weather.’
Peter nodded, and opened his mouth to tell of the stormy journey to Hackney the day before, but shut it again just in time. Anne had warned him to say nothing about yesterday’s doings, for fear the army might take too much interest in her activities.
‘And my lady? She’s well and . . . and safe? She received my letter?’
‘Aye, and she sends you the linen you asked for. There’s a letter here, too.’ Peter pulled a letter from inside his jerkin, but before he could hand it to John, the officer of the guard took it from his hand.
‘We’ll have this read openly, lest there be any treason contained in it.’
‘Treason?’ said John. ‘Treason? What treason could be committed by the wife of a good Parliamentman, who is occupied only about her housekeeping and the care of her seven young children? I think you see spies in shadows, sir, and conspirators in every cupboard.’
The captain looked at him stolidly. ‘We shall see,’ he said. ‘These late years of war, some women have comported themselves more like men, withstanding sieges and galloping about the country after the armies.’
‘Something you soldiers should be grateful for,’ said John sharply, ‘for I’ve heard that many lives have been saved by these same women, who’ve cared for the sick.’
‘And some,’ said the officer, ignoring him, and with a look of disgust, ‘some have even donned men’s clothes and gone for soldiers. ’Tis blasphemous, and contrary to God’s will.’
‘I’m in agreement with you there,’ said John pleasantly, ‘but I assure you my wife would do no such thing. Am I to be allowed my letter and my bundle, or not?’
‘Hand that bundle to me,’ the officer said to Peter, ‘and be off with you.’
‘Thank you, Peter. God be with you, and my loving blessing to all the family,’ said John, as Peter was hustled away by two of the guards.
The officer carried the letter and bundle into the front parlour, which the guards were using as their quarters, and placed both on the table. Then he took the knife from his belt to lift the seal of the letter. After glancing through it, he tossed it to John.
‘Now the bundle,’ he said.
John untied the string, rolling it up and putting it in his pocket. In his present circumstances, even a length of string seemed a precious possession. The outer wrapping was an old pair of breeches, which he used to wear when he was out tramping around the estate at home. He had not realised that Anne had brought them to London. Perhaps she thought them only fit for rags or wrappings, but he foresaw that the time might come when he would be glad of them. Inside were three shirts, a night shift, and three pairs of stockings. He held them up so that the officer could see there was no weapon concealed amongst them, but he took care in handling them, setting them down gently on the table. All the garments, except the stockings, were unusually heavy. The officer nodded to him, and John rolled the bundle up again.
Back in the common dining room, he carried his letter to the window overlooking the Strand, where the bustle of carts carrying goods to Whitehall had continued all morning.
Deare heart, Ann had written, My joy is so great at learning that yu are safe, I can scarce express it. All the family is safe & well, & wee have not been troubl’d again at ye house. Patience & I work’d all night to make yur linen ready for yu. I am truly sorry I cou’d not send it to yu yesterday. I have read yur letter with care, & will do all yu bid me. Francis is recover’d & Mary has cut a new tooth. I pray that yu may soon be releas’d & I beseech God to keep yu from all ill. Yu know that I am always, with all my heart, yur loving wife,
Anne Swynfen
‘You have heard from her at last, then,’ said Crewe, coming over to join him by the window. ‘Does she say why she didn’t send word yesterday?’
‘Nay. Only that she and her waiting gentlewoman have been up all night making my linen ready. Perhaps there was some to-do with the children yesterday that prevented her.’
Crewe clapped him on the shoulder. Despite his wealth and standing, he was a simple and kindly man at heart. He had known John many years, looking on him almost as another son.
‘Come, look more cheerful, friend. Letting us out of our chambers is a good sign, I’m sure. They acted in haste, desperate to defy the will of Parliament to make peace with the king. Now they have us, they don’t know what to do with us. I think it will all end harmlessly.’
‘I pray God you are right,’ said John, tucking Anne’s letter into the breast of his doublet. ‘But I wonder when. . . if. . . I shall ever see them again.’
Chapter Eleven
People began to venture on to the streets again in London. Even a few of the whores were out, shivering in their thin rags as they plied their trade in Dog and Bitch Lane, Moorfields and Saffron Hill. For whores, too, must eat. Heavy snow was falling on Sunday, muffling the sounds of the city, dimpling and dissolving on the sullen grey waters of the Thames, which mirrored the colour of the cannon lined up in Blackfriars, menacing the citizens as they went about their Sabbath devotions. The citizens came forth from their houses timidly at first, gazing about them with the stunned look of those who have survived some great natural disaster. There had been looting, there had been violence, a few women raped, a few men knifed when they tried to resist the soldiers, but the city had not been put to fire and the sword. This had been no Bristol or Basing House. Faces watched from windows, peeping round shutters as the bravest dared to make their way to church. Soon others began to follow. Fathers, having tested the streets, came home to gather up their families and conduct them to worship.
And there was much to be thankful for. The ministers of the London churches, for the most part of the Presbyterian persuasion, or at least opposed to the excesses of ep
iscopal power, raised up prayers of thanksgiving for the general escape of the city from destruction. They thanked God that most of the soldiers had obeyed Fairfax’s orders to conduct themselves in a seemly manner, and hoped fervently that the army would soon be satisfied with whatever moneys London could raise, and move on. Of course, they would not have wished upon any other city this army occupation that London was enduring, but they felt that the soldiers would surely be happier elsewhere.
There was one point, however, on which the preachers of London did not express themselves thankful. News of the imprisonment of forty-two moderate Members of Parliament had now spread throughout the city, at which both ministers and congregations grew full of wrath. Apart from the extreme sectaries, who did exist in small groups in London, the citizens in general were of the same mind as the House of Commons which had voted early on Tuesday morning for peace. After more than six years, the people were weary of war. They wanted no return to royal and episcopal tyranny, but no man wanted to pass his days in constant fear of the sword. The citizens of London were practical people. They desired no more than to go about the business of getting and spending, marrying and burying, eating and drinking, as any ordinary man has a right to expect. The first rumour of possible peace, back in November, had been greeted by London with bonfires and dancing in the streets. It had proved a false rumour, but the certain news of Tuesday’s vote had brought the same spirit of rejoicing to men’s hearts. The subsequent news, that those who had voted for peace were excluded from their seats in Parliament, and some even taken by force and imprisoned, had been received in London with a deep and furious anger.
So the preachers in their pulpits that Sunday morning had no need to persuade a reluctant audience. They poured forth in the words of their fiery sermons the hot resentment, the frustrated passion of their congregations. It was now generally known that the imprisoned members had been confined in Hell, which provided the theme for most of the sermons. As the snow fell heavily outside, and the faithful shivered in the unheated churches, the preachers of London compared the betrayed members to Daniel in the lion’s den, and to Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego thrown into the fiery furnace. The comparison was perhaps metaphorically apt, but bore little resemblance to the real experience of the prisoners in their freezing cellar that first night of confinement. A fine anger burned up brightly, however, in the breasts of the London citizenry, on behalf of their elected members, who had been on the very point of bringing them peace.
Meanwhile, in the Swan and the King’s Head, the prisoners were still uncomfortably crowded, but they were now being provided with a reasonable diet and could move about within each of the inns, although every doorway, inside and out, was heavily guarded. There had been, also, a number of approaches made, both direct and indirect, suggesting that it might be possible for them to go home, provided they agreed to swear this oath or that. But the oaths were not in accord with their sense of honour, and without exception they refused.
In the dining room of the King’s Head, the prisoners had gathered around the long table after dinner to draft a document setting out their case and their demands for release. Prynne, of course, took a passionate lead in discussion; John, as usual, was pressed into service to express the common ideas in the best possible language.
‘It shall be called A Solemn Protestation of the Imprisoned and Secluded Members,’ said Prynne.
This was agreed, with grunts of approval. They set about laying down the points of law and privilege which had been flouted by the army—from the infringement of the will of Parliament to the abuse of privilege and the matter of wrongful imprisonment. Each time Prynne chose an inflammatory form of words, John attempted to modify it to language which would not so enflame the Army Council that they would toss the Solemn Protestation on to the fire unread. However, today his own sense of moderation and decorum were somewhat bruised and he did not check Prynne’s words as much as he would once have done. He raised no objections to: ‘the highest and most detestable force and breach of privilege and freedom ever offered to any Parliament of England’. Nor did he object to the demand for proceedings against the Army and its supporters as ‘disturbers of the peace and settlement of the kingdom’.
Prynne tapped his teeth with the end of his quill.
‘I think we may have them on a writ of habeas corpus,’ he said.
‘It’s worth the attempt,’ Lane agreed.
The professional lawyers amongst them huddled over their notes, conferring about legal niceties. John leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms above his head. His fingers and nails were engrained with ink.
‘I doubt Ireton is in a mood to listen to the finer points of common and statute law,’ he said, turning round to speak to Crewe, who was seated a little aside from the table, with his feet in the hearth, puffing at a pipe of tobacco. His Jemima knew his needs, and had sent a jar of best Virginia weed for his comfort.
Crewe blew out a long blue stream of smoke and nodded. ‘Probably not. But composing this document will give them something to occupy their minds and prevent them from falling into melancholy. Let them amuse themselves.’
‘Probably,’ said John gloomily, ‘the lawyers for the Army Council will claim the contingencies of war as the justification for their actions, though I think they’ve not declared martial law as yet.’
‘They’ll want to avoid that if they can,’ said Crewe. He gave John a sharp look. ‘You look tired, John.’
‘It’s this confinement and idleness.’ John puffed out his breath in an exasperated sigh. ‘I always need to be about and doing. I’m accustomed to walking every day—at home in Swinfen I walk at least ten miles a day, or ride twenty. Caged up here, I’m like a setting dog chained in his kennel when the guns are out for a day of sport. So I sleep badly by night, and I’m as cross as an ill-tempered rooster by day.’
‘Swynfen! Here to us,’ called William Waller. ‘We plain army folk want plain words for this next passage, but Prynne and the lawyers say they will not serve. Come and negotiate between us.’
The day dragged slowly on as they hammered out the rough shape of the Solemn Protestation, then laid it aside to be completed the next day. During that Sabbath morning they had held a makeshift service of prayers amongst themselves, but Sir Robert Harley had pleaded with the captain on duty to send them a good preacher to take a service later in the day. To the surprise of all, a young preacher did arrive just as the day was darkening into evening. The prisoners set to with a will and moved the furniture in the inn dining room, arranging the chairs in rows. As they sat listening to the words of comfort spoken by the preacher, who urged them to faith and constancy, and as they raised their voices in singing psalms, John felt some lifting of the burden, a glimmer of hope that their imprisonment might soon end and life resume its normal course.
The next day brought more activity to lighten the wearisome time. The Solemn Protestation was completed to the general satisfaction. Communication with the outside world was still dependent on the whim of the particular officer on duty and it was certain sure that the officer in charge would refuse to allow them to send forth the Solemn Protestation. Jacob was summoned, and when the door was closed against any interference from the guards, Clotworthy drew him towards the table and the final version of the document.
‘We need this document taken discreetly to the printer’s office, near St Paul’s,’ he said, leaning over the tapman like a benign giant. Benign, at least, for the moment.
‘Master Prynne will give you directions. It’s too grave a responsibility to entrust to the young kitchen boy. Is there a chance you might carry it there yourself, without discovery?’
Jacob looked a little pale, but he nodded.
‘In the afternoon, after dinner. I can slip out then. Near St Paul’s, you say? I may hand it to someone, and then come away at once? I don’t suppose I could wait for the printing of it. I should be missed.’
‘Nay, nay. There will be no need to wait. There’s a
letter here telling the printer what to do in the publishing and distributing of it. You’re a good fellow, Jacob. There are none here will forget what you have done to help us in our time of need.’
In the afternoon, soon after Jacob had been given his instructions, the prisoners received their first visitors. The earliest intimation was the sound of indignant voices outside the door of the dining room, where most of the prisoners were sitting about, reading or talking after dinner. Then the door opened and a middle-aged couple were admitted, the lady in particular looking flustered.
‘My dear Mistress Packer!’ Edward Stephens jumped from his chair and went to greet them. ‘And you, sir! Have you come to comfort the afflicted?’
He drew them both to the fire and made a general introduction.
‘Master and Mistress Packer, the parents of my son-in-law, Robert.’
Eager words greeted the visitors, for Robert Packer was another member of their own political persuasion. There was such a clamour of voices, indeed, that the Packers could not at first respond.
‘What’s the news about the House? Do any members still sit there?’
‘Is Robert taken? Or excluded?’
‘Any words of the army’s plans?’
‘What has happened to the king?’
‘What’s Black Tom about?’
‘Cromwell—does he support what Ireton has done? Surely he wouldn’t act so unlawfully?’
At length, the Packers were able to speak, though they had little good news to tell. Fewer and fewer members were able to attend the House. The eighty or so members allowed to take their seats last week had dwindled to about fifty—barely one in ten of the Commons—as more were barred entry and others, who refused to support the army’s seizure of power, stayed away of their own will. Several votes had failed because there was no quorum. The Lords was reduced to a handful in league with the Army Council, but it was openly said that the Lords would soon be abolished altogether, and the Commons either dissolved or packed with the army’s placemen. Robert had not yet attempted to take his seat, but would try later in the week, when he expected to be excluded. The Packers had no first-hand knowledge of Fairfax, Ireton or Cromwell, but rumours were flying about. It was said that Fairfax had fallen out with the other two, and was angered that so many unlawful actions had been undertaken in his name when he had neither been a party to them, nor approved of them.