by Ann Swinfen
‘That’s enough, Peter!’ said Anne, not sure whether to laugh or cry. ‘We shall miss you, all three,’ she said to Tabby, ‘but I’ve letters of recommendation here for you to take to Mistress Coleman, who’ll help you find new positions. And if we return to London, I’ll be happy to have you back again, any of you. You must give the cat Jemima to my sister-in-law, for we can’t take her with us on the coach.’
She turned to where Peter was making up the fire, the hunch of his shoulders speaking volumes.
‘And as for you, Peter, I am depending on you as the man of the party to see that everything goes smoothly for us. You’ll be glad to see all your family back in Staffordshire, surely?’
Peter gave a sniff.
‘And you know, Tabby, Staffordshire is not really in the north. Swinfen is barely into the south of the county of Stafford, just over the border from Warwickshire. Further north there are places like Derbyshire and Lancashire and Yorkshire. Why, there’s Northumberland and even Scotland. That’s the north!’
She laughed. Why was she giving a geography lesson to her London maid? For the girl, as for all inhabitants of the capital, civilisation ended at London’s city wall.
‘That’s enough grieving. We must all prepare for the morrow. Is supper ready, Hester? Call the children, Kate. Let’s all eat together here in the kitchen as a family for one last time.’
So they sat down together, one family about to be broken apart, as so many had been in late years, and Anne said a blessing over their final meal.
Chapter Twelve
The maid Kate woke Anne before dawn the next morning. She came awake with a start, fighting her way out of a troubled dream, unremembered yet lingering as a shadow at the back of her mind. She had been struggling to find something or someone, dragging her exhausted body through a clinging weight, like bog or snow drift. Sitting up with a groan against the bolster in the big, cold bed, she took the warmed ale and bread Kate had brought her. She scorned the interpretation of dreams, but this one had cast a sense of loss and fear over her mind. She shook her head to clear it of fantasies. Today she must show nothing but courage. All her dependants would look to her to take charge in the long and difficult journey that lay ahead, however unsure of herself she might be. Her heart jumped with sudden fear. What if the army came hunting for her family before they could escape?
‘Is it snowing still?’ she asked.
No idle curiosity, this. If the snow continued too heavily, the stage would not leave. The scheduled run from London to Oxford was a polite fiction maintained by the proprietors. Heavy rain, snow, flooded roads, the movement of troops, sick horses or a damaged wheel—any of these could lead to a cancellation of the coach.
Kate carried her candle across and, parting the curtains, stared out of the window, which showed as a rectangle of only slightly paler grey against the shadows on the wall. The arrow point of the candle flame reflected back from the many panes, and Kate’s face, tired and forlorn, hovered ghostly behind it.
‘There be a little snow, mistress, but nothing to mind. Just a light drifting.’
‘Best that Sam goes to Charing Cross, then, about the places on the coach.’
‘He’m gone already, this half hour. And Peter and Ned loading the baggage into the handcart.’
‘Then I must be up.’
Anne drank the last of the ale, and was glad Kate had warmed it, for as she swung her legs out from under the blankets her feet touched boards as glassy cold as ice on the lake at home in Swinfen.
‘I’ll wear no stays for the journey,’ she said. The stays had been laced less and less tightly as her pregnancy advanced, but the rigid boning even of loosened stays would be unbearable on the long coach journey, now that she was nearly eight months gone. Who was there to criticise her unseemly shape? None but a pack of women and children, and one old man. There was more at stake today than outward respectability.
‘Patience has laid out my brown homespun for me to wear,’ she said, ‘so that I can dress myself if need be on the journey.’
The homespun was as plain a dress as any Puritan housewife’s: a front-fastening bodice, easy to don, and a simple gathered skirt worn over a plain white petticoat. Before they reached Oxford, both would be spattered with mud and slush. While Anne dressed, Kate folded yesterday’s fine city gown and laid it in the travelling bag on top of the writing box and strong box, which she eyed curiously.
‘Is Patience awake?’ Anne asked.
‘Oh aye, mistress. She’m helping Bess to ready the children.’
Kate set to quickly and dressed Anne’s hair in a simple style, which could be tucked into her lace cap, then packed her night shift.
Anne looked around the room. All sign of their lives here for the last three years were gone, save for a chest in which Patience had stored John’s clothes. This would remain in the house, in the hope that he would soon be home. If he had not returned by the time the servants left at Candlemas, Ned had instructions to send it on to Swinfen by a reliable carrier. There was nothing more to do, except to ensure that everything was loaded on the cart, and that the food for the journey was put up in a basket. As soon as Sam returned, they could leave.
The dispirited party set out through the streets of Westminster as the sky began to grow faintly light behind the snow clouds. Kate and Tabby bade them a tearful farewell at the door, and that set the children crying. Had their father been with them, a trip back to Staffordshire to visit their grandparents would have been a grand adventure, but now even little Mary sensed there was something wrong. Dorothea was perched amongst the luggage on the handcart, with silent tears running down her cheeks, while Mary, in Bess’s arms, cried heartily. Sam had rigged up a sort of harness to pull the cart from the front; old Peter and Ned had each a handle to push from behind. Jack, very conscious of his responsibilities as the eldest boy, walked between them, leaning his small weight against the back of the cart and straining to take more than his share of the load.
‘Well, Patience,’ said Anne, ‘you’ll soon see your family again.’
Patience gave her a worried smile. She was leading Ralph by the hand.
‘I pray so.’
Ralph gave a skip to keep up with the fast pace the adults were setting.
‘Shall we be in Swinfen tonight?’
‘Of course not!’ Nan looked at him scornfully. ‘It’s hundreds of miles to Swinfen. We shan’t be there for days and days.’
‘Only four days, I hope,’ said Anne. ‘Two days to Oxford. Two days from Oxford to Lichfield. Then, if we don’t reach Lichfield too late, Swinfen the same evening.’
‘Shall we sleep at an inn?’ asked Francis, slipping his hand into Anne’s. His illness had left him subdued, and Anne wished she had not needed to take him so soon on this winter’s journey.
‘Aye,’ she said, smiling down at him. ‘An inn at Reading tonight, then Oxford tomorrow. The next night . . . I’m not sure where.’
Nan had been calculating in her head. ‘That means we shall be home on Thursday night.’
‘Or perhaps Friday.’ Anne glanced over Nan’s head at Patience. ‘It’s not so very long a journey, after all.’ She said it as much to reassure herself as the others. She would not allow herself to think what would happen if any of the coaches did not run, or if the weather grew worse. They might have to spend several days at one of the inns. There was adequate money in the strong box for the moment, but not if they became stranded for a long time.
Once again she was thankful for Sam Carpenter’s presence when they reached Charing Cross. Two coaches were being readied for the seven o’clock run to Reading and Oxford, one fairly new and clean looking, the other an ancient vehicle, scratched and battered, its doors half hanging from their hinges, the rack on the roof broken away, so that some of the luggage was sure to be lost at the first sharp bend in the road. An office clerk at the stage post, seeing their undistinguished party of women and children, tried to hustle them aboard the old coach, but Sam str
ode briskly up.
‘Nay, then, none of that. We have places booked on the new coach. I’ve already paid extra. Don’t try any of your scurvy tricks.’
Grumbling, the man ordered one of the drivers to load the Swynfens’ luggage on to the top of the better coach. Anne watched till all was loaded, mistrusting the men, who had a reputation for stealing passengers’ possessions. The driver held out his hand for her carpet bag, but she held it tightly.
‘Not this one. We shall need it on the journey.’
‘There be no room for luggage inside,’ he said, seizing hold of the handle.
Again Sam intervened.
‘The lady needs her bag,’ he said. ‘Would you have the little one fouling the coach for your other passengers?’
The driver turned away in disgust. It was clear he did not relish driving a coach full of small children. And despite Sam’s best efforts to secure a whole coach for their party, they would have to share it with other passengers fleeing from the occupied city, who seemed equally displeased at the sight of their juvenile travelling companions. Peter would travel outside with the driver, along with two other men. Each of the four women in the party must needs take a child on her lap. Of the children, only Nan and Jack had seats.
With all the luggage and people stowed, Anne handed Mary to Nan and stepped down to thank Sam for his help. He brushed her grateful words aside.
‘You and Master Swynfen have been more than kind to my old uncle,’ he said, nodding to where Ned was attempting to reverse the handcart, ‘when many would have turned him away, as too decrepit to work any longer. I pray God speed you on your journey.’
‘You have the packet for my husband?’
Sam patted the breast of his coat.
‘Safe in here. As soon as we’ve returned the cart, I’ll be off home, and call at the inn on my way. You can see it from here.’
Anne spun round. She had not realised John was so near. Sam pointed down the street, to where she could make out an inn sign projecting over the road, painted with a crude representation of a crowned head.
‘That’s it, the King’s Head?’
‘Aye. Circled round with armed men, but nothing more than a common inn, when all’s said.’
At this distance it was impossible to make out the armed men, but she glanced fearfully around the small crowd gathered about the coach station. Anyone of those lingering onlookers might be an informer, reporting to Cromwell and the Army Council on the movements of their enemies. Her breath caught in her throat in panic. Quickly, quickly—why did the coach not leave?
At last the driver blew a blast on his horn, to give warning of the coach’s imminent departure.
‘You must be aboard, mistress,’ said Sam.
Anne climbed in and took her seat, wedged between the side of the coach and Hester’s ample hips. Nan leaned across and passed Mary to her. Their good-byes to Sam and Ned were drowned by the sudden clatter of the horses’ hooves on the cleared cobbles and the cacophony of creaks and groans from the leather, metal and wood of the coach as it lumbered into motion. Anne strained towards the window, watching that sign of the King’s Head until the coach bore round to the left and headed towards Hyde Park, along the very road the soldiers had taken on their way to seize London. She let her breath escape in a long sigh of relief.
When the Oxford stage set off, John was at the window of his chamber, looking down the Strand towards Charing Cross. He knew that at least one of the coaches was bound for Oxford, but not which one, nor could he tell, at this distance, whether his family was amongst the crowd of passengers milling about in the dirty snow. So, uncertain whether or not Anne and the children were there, he sent up a prayer for all those setting out on a journey in such perilous times, under snow-heavy skies. As the last of the morning’s coaches rumbled away, he felt a sudden stab of doubt. Had he done right in sending them out of London? Anne was an obedient wife. She would do as she was bid. But was he asking too much, that she travel at such a time, with no man for protection? He did not count Peter. Anne was likelier to be able to protect the old man than he was to protect her. What if the babe were to come early? Some of the other children had done so, though he could not now remember which ones. She might go into labour, there on the coach. He gripped the window frame, his forehead pressed against the chill glass. He had surely been too hasty in sending them away. These recent days he had lost his way, no longer certain of how best to act. After the initial looting and brawls, the occupying army seemed to be under stricter control. The members might not be kept imprisoned much longer, now that the Army Council had tightened its grip on all the instruments of government. Certainly they would be barred from taking their seats in Parliament, like the other members who had been secluded. But they might be allowed free from prison on some sort of bail. He chewed on his thumbnail, watching the last coach disappear from view. When would he ever see her again?
The prisoners had gathered in the dining room in expectation of breakfast, when Jacob came in, carrying something loosely bundled in a cloth, which he handed to John.
‘The captain has examined this and says you may have it.’
Anne’s note had been taken out of the book and read. It lay, somewhat crumpled by the captain’s rough handling, on top of the familiar volume. He read her message quickly. So they had left, perhaps in one of those very coaches he had been watching. He stuffed the cloth in the pocket of his doublet and carried the Boethius over to the small light coming in through the window, whose glass was more than usually obscured this morning with mud and slush thrown up by the traffic in the street outside. He smiled to himself. How rightly Anne had judged in sending him this book.
‘Look here!’ cried Prynne.
Jacob had smuggled something else in to them, under the pretext of bringing John’s packet. Prynne waved a hastily printed sheet in the air.
‘The Solemn Protestation is printed now for all to see! They may have kept us kicking our heels in Whitehall, and not allowed us to speak, like some poor beggar from the gutter, but we have our case set out now before the world!’
The Protestation was passed from hand to hand as they ate their breakfast. All of them felt that, at last, they were beginning to fight back, and they were cheerfully plotting their next move, when the captain on duty that day walked in and surveyed them with no very friendly stare, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
‘Well, we have taken your friend Major-General Richard Browne, who’s been playing at fox and chickens with us this week past. Now we have him!’
‘Is he coming here?’ asked Waller. ‘Or to the Swan?’
‘Neither. He’s taken to prison in St James’s Palace, and he will not be residing in one of the state apartments, you may be sure.’ The captain laughed harshly. ‘He dared accuse us of trying to set up “a monstrous conception of a military anarchy”. Well, Colonel Hewson was having none of that.’
He looked around at them with narrowed eyes.
‘In my view, you’re far too comfortably lodged here. This is no fit prison for conspirators and traitors.’
At this, Prynne leapt forward, but Massey, in one neat movement, clapped his hand over Prynne’s mouth and pulled him back into the shadows until the captain had stalked out.
‘Unhand me!’ Prynne sputtered, shaking off Massey’s arm. ‘I was about to tell him—’
‘We know what you were about to tell him, Will,’ said Massey soothingly. ‘It will do you no good. Can’t you see, he came in here to provoke us? Don’t give them that satisfaction.’
‘A wise head on young shoulders,’ Crewe murmured to John.
The news about Browne, imprisoned at St James’s, left them downcast. They were reduced once more to their interminable waiting. Then, about halfway through the morning, two occurrences altered their mood, swinging it first one way and then the other. Thomas Lane and Henry Pelham were called out to a conference in the small private parlour belonging to the innkeeper and his fam
ily. They returned with troubled faces.
‘Sir Thomas Widdrington has requested our release,’ said Lane, ‘on giving our word to appear when summoned by the Commons.’
The other prisoners exchanged looks.
‘By the Commons?’ John exclaimed.
This was a new tactic on the part of their gaolers. All the offers of release until now had been on condition that they agree to appear on summons by the Army Council. Such remnant of the Commons as now sat in the Palace of Westminster could never be regarded as the true House of Commons, but to obey their summons was not so offensive as to obey the army’s command. Looked at from a certain angle, it was almost legitimate.
‘Army or Commons,’ said Prynne decisively, ‘they have no power to order you, since your imprisonment was not legal in the first instance. You should refuse.’
Others were less sure. Lane and Pelham were two of the oldest of the prisoners. The younger men felt they had no right to urge continued imprisonment on their elders. Besides, both men were professional lawyers. Despite Prynne’s arguments, if they felt they could honourably swear such an oath, that would be a decision taken with due care.
‘Charles Vaughan is here under guard,’ said Pelham, ‘brought from the Swan. He has been offered the same terms, and is minded to accept, but he wanted to hear our views.’
‘All three of you are lawyers,’ said John slowly, ‘and all three of a goodly age. Is there some meaning to be read from this?’
Pelham shook his head. ‘I can’t say. But it may be that we can do more good for all of us outside these walls, rather than in. We may be able to bring a case, if the law courts are still operating.’
‘Habeas corpus,’ muttered Prynne.
Pelham might be right. He was a good lawyer, and a shrewd and experienced politician. He had even served as Speaker in the Commons, during that time last year when Lenthall had deserted his post and defected to the army. The discussion ranged back and forth amongst the prisoners for nearly an hour, but in the end it was agreed by nearly all of them that Lane and Pelham should accept the offer, and urge Vaughan to do the same. Once free, they would do all they could to secure the release of the rest.