by Ann Swinfen
‘As for Cromwell and Ireton,’ Master Packer shrugged and raised his eyes to heaven. ‘Would Ireton have dared to lay hands on you as he did, if Cromwell had been here in London? Perhaps not. But Noll Cromwell, as indecisive as a girl with the green sickness, dallies on the road south and arrives to find all done that he might not have done, or might have done differently, had he been here. Now that it is done, he has spoken in favour of his son-in-law’s actions. Ireton is no fool. He knows that by acting before Cromwell arrived, he forced him into the place where he wanted him. Cromwell can’t now speak against Ireton, or else the whole army conspiracy would be discredited, and they would fall apart, squabbling amongst themselves.’
‘Is there any word of Nat Fiennes?’ John asked.
‘Despatched to Oxfordshire by his father today,’ said Philippa Packer. ‘But, knowing we hoped to visit you, he sent a letter and these newspapers round to us by his manservant.’
She drew a packet of papers from the bodice of her dress, where she had hidden it behind the stiffened busk, to keep it safe from the searching hands of the guards. Soon after this the Packers were ordered to leave. They obeyed, promising further visits.
Philippa Packer embraced Crewe as she left.
‘I’m glad to find you all so cheerful, cousin.’
‘It’s your presence that cheers us, dear lady,’ he said. ‘You have truly brought the sun into this room, to dispel our sullen gloom.’
The newspapers and Nat’s letter were eagerly passed from hand to hand. The letter contained little more information than they had already gleaned from the Packers, although Nat did pass on a warning. It is rumour’d, he wrote, that those who were snr officers during ye early days of ye Parliamentary army will soon be confined more straitly than ye rest.
The newspapers were of every political hue, from the Leveller Moderate to Marchamont Nedham’s Mercurius Pragmaticus. They reported the events of the last few days, including the imprisonment of the members, more or less accurately, but each with its own political colouring. The tone of the Moderate seemed somewhat ambivalent to those who knew the aspirations of the Levellers. So strong was the Leveller movement within the ranks of the army that its leaders, in particular John Lilburne, had been able to bring much influence to bear on Ireton. But it was clear that the Levellers were suspicious of the motives of the army leaders. They knew that Cromwell and Ireton would collaborate with the Levellers only so long as they either needed them or feared their power amongst the rank and file of the soldiers.
The prisoners retired to their chambers that night in the certainty that their plight was at least common knowledge on the streets of London.
‘I bid you good night,’ John said to his chamber companions as he blew out the candle. ‘Let’s pray that the morning brings us further news and more visitors.’
‘Tomorrow,’ rejoined Massey sleepily, ‘the Solemn Protestation will be published. Cromwell and Ireton must make some response to our protests at last.’
Despite the blizzard on Sunday morning, Anne had led her household to service in St Margaret’s. It seemed as though a month had passed, not a mere week, since she had last walked here on John’s arm. The children and servants followed her, very subdued, their heads bowed and their eyes averted from the army patrols. Nan, who had not been outside the house since they had arrived back from Hackney, clung to Patience’s hand, and looked sick with fear. Anne walked alone, her head up. She was wearing pattens, to keep her shoes from the snow, but they made her clumsy, so that she staggered like a drunkard. In the deep snow which lay, unswept, in the streets, they did little to protect her feet. With an exclamation of annoyance, she stopped. The whole household stopped behind her, startled.
‘Lend me your arm, Peter,’ she said.
Steadying herself against this feeble support, she stooped and tore off the pattens, and tossed them aside into a snow drift.
‘Thank you. Let us continue, children.’
Now, at least, she could walk with some dignity. As they approached the church, she was reassured to see that almost the whole congregation was gathering. Some, no doubt, had left London in the last few days. She herself planned to leave tomorrow, as John had implied she should do in his letter.
‘Mistress Anne! How do you fare? Have you any word of John?’
It was Samuel Gott, who took her hand in both of his and looked at her with concern.
‘Samuel! It’s good to see you still walking about free.’
‘I’m secluded from the House,’ he said, ‘but I am a small fish compared with John. They wouldn’t care enough about me to imprison me. But John, any news?’
‘He’s held at the King’s Head in the Strand,’ she said, ‘along with the others.’
‘A few are at the Swan, I hear,’ he said. ‘And more than a hundred like me, perhaps two hundred or even three, barred from our seats by force. The whole business of government is in collapse. Not Parliament only, but the courts, the committees which manage the daily affairs of the nation, the commissioners of the Great Seal. Nothing can be done.’
‘I hope they’re pleased, then, at this wonderful state of affairs.’
Gott shook his head.
‘I fear it won’t teach them to restore Parliament. These men are dangerous, Anne. They won’t admit they are wrong, these Saints.’
His lip curled in contempt.
‘They will step further along this road to a dark future. The Levellers mean to have revolution and a world turned upside down. As for the army junta, I think they’ll part company with Lilburne. They won’t sacrifice their own estates and power to this great levelling down. Nay, I think we’ll see a new tyranny arise, and further bloodshed.’
‘They mean to put the king on trial, do they not?’ Anne said softly.
‘I think so. And if they do, it’s certain they’ll find him guilty and execute him.’
‘Can they do such a thing? However much we oppose him, Charles Stuart is God’s anointed.’
‘When men hold absolute power,’ said Gott, ‘they can do whatever they please. Do you mean to stay here in Westminster?’
Anne glanced about to see whether they were overheard by any standing near. She shook her head.
‘I hope to leave for Swinfen tomorrow,’ she murmured. ‘I’ll hire the largest private coach I can find, for I’ve a large family to transport.’
‘Alas, Anne, I’ve heard that every private coach is gone from London and Westminster. You must needs take the stage from Charing Cross.’
At this the tolling of the bell called them in to church. Anne hardly heard the words of the service, responding without conscious thought throughout, and mouthing the psalms. During the long sermon, although she heard the preacher call upon the Army Council to release the prisoners, she heard little else. To travel by public coach to Staffordshire with six children and four servants would be a fearful undertaking. They would need to occupy nearly the whole of a coach, and in the present circumstances that might not be possible. Yet she dared not divide their party between two coaches. They must stay together. She would send Peter or Ned out before dawn tomorrow morning to await the opening of the stage post at Charing Cross, to reserve seats for them all on the coach to Oxford. If needs must, she would bribe the clerk.
When they came out of church, they found it was snowing again. Samuel Gott came to Anne to bid her a quiet farewell.
‘I’ll visit John if I can, and send you word to Swinfen. I hope you find Master Richard Swynfen and Mistress Joane well.’
‘Thank you,’ said Anne. ‘We’ve heard nothing from John’s parents this month and more. I sent word to them yesterday of what has been happening here, but I don’t know if Parliament’s post is still being carried.’
‘You’ll probably arrive before your letter.’ He kissed her hand. ‘God go with you, on the journey, and with the new babe.’
Sam Carpenter arrived that afternoon, having walked out from the City to Westminster to visit
his uncle and pay his respects. Anne sent Peter to bring him into the parlour. She had decided to confide in him.
‘Sit down, Sam,’ she said. ‘I want to speak to you in confidence about my plans. Master Swynfen thinks I should move the household back to Staffordshire, and I hope to leave tomorrow.’
Sam showed no surprise. Some word of their departure must already have been spoken in the kitchen.
‘We’ll go by stage to Oxford, then from Oxford to Lichfield, where I should be able to hire a private coach to take us the last few miles to Swinfen.’
Sam nodded. ‘Who goes with you?’
‘Apart from the children and my waiting gentlewoman, all the servants who came with us from Staffordshire—Peter, Bess and Hester. I have offered to take Ned and the two girls, but they prefer to stay near their families. I won’t turn them away penniless. I shall pay them each two months’ board wages, and they may stay in this house as long as they need. The rent is paid until Candlemas, nearly two months yet. Now, it may be that my husband will be set free by then, and they will be welcome to stay on.’
‘And if not?’
Anne clenched her hands together. She did not want to consider this possibility, but she must.
‘Ned may go to you, may he not?’
‘Of course. There’s always room for him at my fireside.’
‘I’m going to write a letter for each of the girls to take to my sister-in-law, Mistress Coleman, asking her to help them find new positions. I can do the same for Ned.’
‘Perhaps that would be wise, for his pride’s sake. He wouldn’t wish to think himself too old for work. But I hope I can persuade him to come to my wife and me, once he’s finished here.’
This was a thoughtful young man, as well as a sensible one. Anne smiled at him.
‘You’re right. I’ll do it now. I hope that, after we’ve gone, you may be able to visit the three of them here from time to time, to see that all is well.’
‘I’ll be happy to do it, mistress,’ said Sam. ‘Could I suggest something myself?’
‘Of course.’
‘Let me stay here this night and help you set off on the morrow. I have a strong pair of arms, and I think you’ll be needing help.’
Anne was surprised at the intensity of her gratitude. She had wracked her brains trying to think how best to move all the luggage and the children to Charing Cross. And Sam could go to buy their seats on the coach early in the morning. A strong young man, built more like a farmer than a tailor, he would not be elbowed aside by other travellers as Peter or Ned would.
‘But can you stay? Won’t your wife worry if you don’t come home tonight?’
‘I told her not to expect me until the morrow. I can’t risk running the curfew too often! I planned to stop the night at a tavern somewhere along the Strand. But I can sleep in the kitchen here and make sure you’re all safely aboard the coach, with no children mislaid, and still be home to open the shop by nine of the clock.’
‘Sam Carpenter,’ said Anne, ‘you’re a true gentleman. I’ve known noblemen who would make a poor showing beside you.’
Sam coloured and crushed his cap between his hands, but he looked pleased all the same. They discussed what was to be done the next morning, and then Sam went off to visit a friend who lived nearby, a man who owned a handcart.
‘It will solve the matter of the luggage,’ said Sam. ‘Peter and Uncle Ned and I can push it full to Charing Cross, and then Uncle Ned and I can bring it back empty before I walk to the City.’
When he had gone, Anne fetched pen, ink and paper from John’s study, to write the letters of recommendation for the London servants. As she sanded them and set them to dry, she wondered whether she would ever see the three of them again. The two girls were good workers, if a mite giddy, and she had become fond of Ned, so sturdily independent even in old age. She was sure he would not accept Sam’s offer of a quiet place by the fireside.
She would need to seal the letters. Back in the study again to search for John’s fob seal, which he kept on his writing table, she suddenly noticed his little shelf of books, which she had forgotten to pack. He would not forgive her if they were left behind to be looted once the house was empty. First, she carried wax and signet into the parlour, where she folded and sealed her letters, addressing them on the outside to Grace at her house in Holborn. Then she took all the writing materials back to the study and unlocked John’s writing box with one of the keys she had worn round her neck since he had given them to her the previous Sunday evening. There were five books. They could be fitted in to the writing box and the strong box, which she lifted out of the court cupboard and placed on the table.
One of the books was a slender volume by Boethius, Philosphiae Consolatio, a book John often turned to when public affairs or the horrors of war overwhelmed him with melancholy. Anne knew only a little Latin, learned when she shared her brother’s lessons with his tutor when she was young. She had never attempted to read anything as difficult as the Boethius, although she knew a little about the book, written while the author was in prison, awaiting execution. Would John find solace in it now, or would his present circumstances resemble the Roman philosopher’s too closely for comfort?
She held the book between her hands, caressing the ridged spine with her thumb. It was a compact duodecimo, beautifully bound in polished calf, tooled with a pattern of leaves and flowers within a geometric border, but the corners were faintly rubbed where John had carried it about in his pocket. She laid the book against her cheek. The scent of leather and thick stiff paper and printer’s ink brought John to her mind with shocking clarity. She could see him bowed over the book in the uncertain light of the candle, wearing the loose velvet robe he preferred in the evening when they were alone and undisturbed by visitors. Tears welled up and began to spill over. Would they ever sit again beside the fire, in the silence without need for words? How little she had valued these things, when it seemed that the years stretched quietly ahead of them.
She brushed her eyes angrily with the back of her hand. She would ask Sam to take the book to John in the King’s Head on his way back to the City tomorrow, and she would slip a short note inside, enough to let him know that they were safely away. And of course it would be necessary to admit that she had brought Nan home from Perwicks’ school. Would he be angry with her? Probably he had too much else to concern him, to worry about where Nan was. Anne was sure she had acted wisely. If only she could have brought Dick as well. Young as he was, he would have been a support on the long journey.
The remaining books she packed in the two boxes. From the strong box she took out money enough for the servants’ wages and for the journey, then she locked both and carried them upstairs to her chamber. They were heavy, but she must carry them herself, in her smaller travelling bag. It stood on the end of the bed, half packed, waiting for her night shift and toiletries to be added in the morning. The two boxes fitted on top of the clothes already folded inside, leaving just enough room for the rest to be added tomorrow. The bag was made of Turkey carpet and fastened with leather straps. She tested the weight. It was fortunate Sam was borrowing the handcart. She could rest it on the edge, but not let it out of her sight. It would have been a heavy burden to carry all the way to Charing Cross. She pushed away the thought of the later stages of the journey, when there would be no Sam to help her.
Downstairs again, she penned a short note to John. Not knowing who might see it before it reached his hands, she dared say little.
Deare heart,
I shall do as yu bid tomorrow, for all of us, & Nan too, who is here with mee. All is well with us, & I pray God all is well with yu. I send yu yur Boethius his Consolatio that yu may have wherewithal to pass ye time. I have been much help’d by Sam Carpenter, nephew to Ned, who deserves gratitude from us both. At service today I spoke to Samuel Gott, who hopes hee may be able to visit yu. I pray yu, if yu may, send mee word how yu fare.
Yur loving wife in God,
Anne Sw
ynfen
She folded the letter and slipped it between the pages of the Boethius, which she wrapped carefully in several layers of cloth and tied with tape. It would be unforgivable if any harm came to this favourite book. Gathering up the three letters and the package, she went down the narrow passage to the kitchen, where she found Hester preparing supper with help of the London maids, all of them in tears. The two menservants were in no better state. Peter, bringing in coal from the shed outside, and Ned, rubbing the family’s travelling shoes with goose grease to keep out the snow, wore expressions of misery.
‘What’s this?’ said Anne, patting Tabby on the shoulder. ‘Such tears!’
‘We mislike to see you go, mistress,’ the girl cried. ‘We’m happy here, me and Kate. And ’tis a fearful journey you’re to be making, into that wild country up north, with all them soldiers roaming about, and broken men, and footpads.’
Hester made a sound somewhere between a squeal and a sob. She was a large woman, a tribute to her own cooking, but her comfortable appearance belied her dramatic temperament. The sudden flight from London might propel her at any moment into hysterics. Peter shook his head.
‘Aye, ’twill be a dangerous journey, right enough,’ he said gloomily. ‘Miles and miles it is, to Staffordshire. And when we came to London, we travelled in a private coach and ’twas summer time. I mind it took us three days then, and that was with the roads dry and no snow and no floods. And we’d the master to look after all. Like enough we’ll get no further than Reading before—’