by Ann Swinfen
It was in a state compounded of doubt and hope that the prisoners watched their two colleagues leave, soon afterwards to be seen walking past the windows with Charles Vaughan, under armed escort.
‘I hope this is not some trick,’ said Crewe. ‘They do not have the look of free men to me.’
However, there was little they could do other than wait upon events. The next development was not long in coming. Jacob arrived to lay out dishes for dinner, and as usual he had kept his eyes and ears open. It was clear to all that some news had pleased him greatly, for his eyes were merry and he could barely suppress his smile.
‘Well, then, man, out with it!’ said Crewe, smiling himself, for the man’s mirth was infectious. ‘What is today’s tale on the street?’
At that Jacob laughed grimly.
‘Thieves fallen out, over dividing the spoils of their robbery!’ he cried, setting down the pile of pewter plates on the table, so that he might wipe his hands on his apron.
He had the attention of them all now. Glancing round to ensure that the door was fast closed against the hearing of the guards, he leaned over conspiratorially.
‘As you know, gentlemen, none better, Ireton and his fellows could only seize London if they had the absolute support of the army, and since the debates in Putney last year, ’tis as plain as this finger before my face that, more and more, the army is turning to John Lilburne and his Levellers.’
There was some anxious stirring amongst the prisoners. Lilburne had whipped up passions in many of the people—not the poorest, but those a little above them, who wanted more political power and a greater share in the riches of the country. This idea of a ‘levelling’ of men was a dangerous heresy, contrary to the natural God-given hierarchy. If common men thought themselves the equals of the gentry and aristocracy, where would it end? Servants would suppose themselves the equals of their masters, and women would suppose themselves the equals of men. True, the Levellers did not themselves advocate the equality of women, but you might as soon try to catch the winds in a sack as imprison such an idea once it ran about freely amongst the people. The very word, ‘levelling’, smacked of fearful rebellion, an overturning of civilisation.
‘Anyway,’ Jacob continued, ‘it seems Ireton and Lilburne squabbled and fought over the words of that declaration of theirs, The Agreement of the People—Lilburne burning up with zeal, Ireton trying to dash cold water on it, to put out some of the fire, but until they had London in an iron grip, Ireton and Cromwell are going to speak honeyed words to Lilburne, aren’t they? Now, they have London. Now, they have throttled Parliament and the courts. Now, they are not so ready to be friends with John Lilburne.’
‘And?’ Crewe prompted.
‘And Lilburne has found them out. He’s calling the officers of the Army Council “a pack of dissembling, juggling knaves”. Worst of them all, he says, is that “cunningest of Machiavellians”, Henry Ireton.’
Jacob dealt out the pewter plates on to the table, as if he were laying out a pack of cards to read their fortunes.
‘A falling out amongst thieves, as I said, gentlemen. Who sups with the devil needs a long spoon.’
Whistling cheerfully, he left them.
‘Aye,’ said John thoughtfully. ‘But which one is the old gentleman with the tail and horns? We are right to fear the Levellers. But if Cromwell and Ireton are grown so strong that they need no longer take account of Lilburne’s influence in the army, then they are grown mighty indeed.’
Dinner came at four o’clock, but John, for one, was finding that the lack of exercise, or of any purpose to life as day followed day, left him with little appetite. He did his best to eat, however, for he thought he had read in the captain’s words that morning a warning that they would soon be removed to a worse place, those of them who were not released on swearing some oath. His fears were realised in the late afternoon when the Provost Marshal, Captain Lawrence, arrived. They had not seen him since the second day of their imprisonment, when he had failed to provide them with any food in the cellar under Hell, and had marched them off to Whitehall for the meeting with the Army Council which never took place. His arrival was greeted by a tense silence. Those who had been reading, laid down their books. Those who had been speaking, ceased in mid-sentence.
Lawrence looked uncomfortable, perhaps aware that their feelings towards him—spokesman, willy-nilly, for the Army Council—were decidedly hostile.
‘Gentlemen, I bring an order for the removal of four of your number to St James’s.’
They looked at each other. Who was to be carried off to more secure confinement?
‘General Sir William Waller,’ said Lawrence, ‘General Lionel Copley, Colonel Edward Massey, and General Sir John Clotworthy.’
Immediately an outcry arose from all those present. This was outrageous. All those imprisoned should be kept together. On what grounds were these four being singled out?
‘I see no written order here,’ said Waller at last. ‘I warn you, sir, not one of us will stir from this place on a verbal order only.’
Lawrence tried to bluster his way out of this oversight, but in the end he yielded and went off to Whitehall to obtain the written order for the removal of the four.
‘Come, John,’ said Waller. ‘We plain soldiers need your skills again. We must make use of this time to pen our protest, for we shall not go in silence.’
Prynne bustled forward. ‘Let me. It calls for a professional lawyer. Swynfen is well enough for preparing committee reports and drafting Parliamentary Bills, but he has never practised at law—’
‘Thank you, Will,’ said Waller, ‘but we have little enough time. All we need is something short and clear, to make our case.’
‘Willingly,’ said John. ‘I’ll do what I can.’
When Lawrence returned with the written order, the four officers came out to the door of the inn, surrounded by their friends. A small crowd of citizens had gathered, alerted by the news that something was afoot at the King’s Head. Small tradesmen and peddlers, a woman with a basket of chickens, three or four ragged urchins, a young man in clerical dress, a milkmaid with empty buckets swinging from her yoke—they were not great folk, but their voices would carry word of this into the homes and taverns of London. By tomorrow it would be known in every corner of Westminster and the City. Standing bareheaded in the snow, as if he were in church, Waller read out in a loud clear voice the short document that had been hastily prepared.
The Protestation at the King’s Head
We whose names are hereunto subscribed, being Members of the House of Commons, and free men of England, do hereby declare and protest before God, angels, and men, that the General and officers of the Army, being raised by the authority of Parliament, and for defence and maintenance of the privileges thereof, have not, or ought to have any power or jurisdiction to apprehend, secure, detain, imprison, or remove our persons from place to place by any colour or authority whatsoever. And that the present imprisonment and removal of our persons is a high violation of the rights and privileges of Parliament, and of the fundamental laws of the land, and a higher usurpation and exercise of an arbitrary and unlawful power, than hath been heretofore pretended to, or attempted by this, or any King or other power whatsoever within this realm; notwithstanding which, we and every one of us do declare our readiness to submit ourselves to the legal trial of a free Parliament, for any crime or misdemeanour that can or shall be objected against us.
As Waller finished speaking, there were cheers and shouts of support from both prisoners and citizens.
‘This rule of the army is worse than that of the Grand Turk or Janissaries,’ shouted Prynne furiously, who for once was almost speechless with anger.
‘Aye,’ cried John. ‘’Tis worse by far than anything devised by the evil councillors of the king. This nation has fought and men have died to throw off that tyranny only to fall under a worse yoke.’
Lawrence and the armed guard he had brought wi
th him paid them no heed. Each of the four prisoners was seized, his arms grabbed by two musketeers, and was thrust, almost thrown, into one of the two coaches. As the remaining prisoners were pushed back inside the inn by the flat of their guards’ swords, the coaches vanished into the darkness.
The journey to Staffordshire began uneventfully enough. The children were tired with rising so early and soon fell asleep, despite the jarring of the coach and the constant noise. It was not so easy for the women. Anne was the least burdened, with Mary, but so full-bellied was she by now that there was little enough room on her lap for the child, who squirmed even in her sleep. Before long Anne’s back was aching, and her arms were grown almost numb with trying to prevent the child falling off. The unborn child, as if it felt itself crowded too, began to twist and kick, until she felt as though she was in the midst of a dog fight. The lurching movement of the coach filled her with nausea. Next to her, Hester was holding Dorothea, who kicked out from time to time in her sleep, bruising Anne’s legs with her stiff little boots. Ralph, for once, was quiet, sprawled on Bess’s lap, but Francis moaned against Patience’s shoulder as if he were troubled again by his feverish dreams.
Although Nan and Jack had been allowed space on the seats, these were meant only to accommodate four persons on each side, so they were squashed between the adults, Nan next to Hester, and Jack next to Patience. The movement of the coach sometimes slid Jack against a hard-faced man, who threw him off with an angry exclamation each time. A gentleman, well but soberly dressed, he had perched a pair of spectacles on his nose and was reading a dull-looking book, despite the continual jostling. At first Anne apologised for the children, but the man glowered at her in such an unfriendly fashion that after a time she no longer troubled. Public travel in England with so many children was a wretched business. Charles Coleman, who had journeyed abroad to study the music of other countries, had once told her that the French and the Italians liked children. If you had a large family, you were praised and cosseted. On such a journey as this, the other passengers would be admiring and playing with the children, and eagerly talking about their own. So Charles said. She was not certain that she believed him. Wearily she leaned her head against the side of the coach. It was hardly restful, for her head bounced about like a tennis ball. It was beginning to ache.
Between half-closed lids, she studied the other passengers. On the opposite seat, next to the disagreeable man, there was a young fellow, perhaps a clerk, who sat with downcast eyes, modest as any maid. Beyond Nan, on Anne’s side, sat a middle-aged couple, of the prosperous sort, most likely a City merchant and his wife escaping the looting of the army. From the way the man’s eyes went constantly to a satchel on his lap, Anne—conscious all the time of the strong box near her feet—realised that he, too, was carrying a substantial amount of coin. These two spoke constantly together in whispers, as though they feared being overheard by the others in the coach. Unlike Anne, the wife had donned her finest clothes for travelling. Perhaps this journey by public coach was her first, for she would regret her soiled skirts and torn lace by the time they reached their destination. It was impossible to transpose Charles’s stories of the camaraderie of an Italian coach journey to this stiff, mistrustful company. In such dangerous days, it was natural to be cautious with strangers, but Anne was sure that, even in the most peaceful of times, English reserve would have kept her fellow travellers walled into a tight silence, despite the physical proximity which meant their bodies rubbed and bumped together on the crowded seats.
At the first staging post the passengers climbed out of the coach while the horses were changed. The other inside passengers disappeared into the inn in search of food and drink, but the children woke up crying and bad-tempered, and all had to be found chamberpots. While Bess changed Mary’s dirty clouts, Anne led her procession into the inn and asked for the privy. Already she felt tired and dirty, and they had not travelled more than eight miles. There was no time for food at the inn, once all the children had been seen to, so when the coach was once more under way, Hester pulled out the large basket which she had stored under the seat and handed out bread and cheese to their party. This appeared to annoy the man opposite even more than the children falling on top of him. He drew out of his pocket a folded copy of the Weekly Intelligencer, shook it out and began to read.
As the coach drew on towards Windsor, the children, revived by sleep and food, became noisy and quarrelsome. They trampled on the feet of the adults as they clambered from side to side of the coach, trying to look out of the windows. They complained of boredom and constantly asked when the coach would reach Reading.
‘Madam,’ said the man opposite, at last, ‘can you not maintain some discipline amongst your children?’
‘I’m truly sorry,’ said Anne, her own nerves a-jangle, feeling some sympathy for him. ‘It’s very trying for them to be so confined.’
‘It’s very trying for us,’ he said. ‘How far do you travel?’
‘Oxford.’
He heaved a dramatic sigh and retreated again behind his newspaper.
The one blessing, Anne thought, was the weather. No more than a light snow continued to fall. The sky was overcast, but the snow was not lying too thickly on the road, although it was enough to slow the coach. She had heard some of the passengers commenting on how long it had taken to reach the first stage. But the snow was no more than six inches deep, and the wind was not strong enough to cause drifts. It could have been very much worse, if a blizzard had been blowing or if a thaw had set in, turning the road to bog so that the coach could not move forward.
Even so, each delayed stage made them later and later. In summer, as long as the roads were in good repair, the express coach could reach Oxford in a day, although it was a bitterly long day of eighteen exhausted hours of travelling. In winter, only riders on urgent government business would attempt such rapid travel. The town of Reading was quite far enough for ordinary travellers to go in one day. Darkness closed in on them. The driver pulled up long enough for the postilion to hang candle lanterns from the two corners of his footboard. On the urgent demand of the disagreeable man, he also hung one, grumbling, from a hook inside the coach, where it pitched about so violently that Anne thought they would all be set on fire.
They proceeded now at walking pace, for fear the horses should stray off the road into the ditch in the dark and overturn the coach. Despite the sixteen passengers crowded together inside, it grew bitterly cold, and Anne was worried about Peter, outside in the weather, even though she had insisted that he wrap two blankets around him. At last, as the road came over a rise, the scattered lights of a town winked into sight.
‘God be thanked!’ said the man opposite, ‘We have reached Reading at last!’ To her astonishment, he even smiled at Anne in his relief.
She smiled back. The children had been quiet for the last few hours. Perhaps she was forgiven.
The horses’ hooves struck cobbles as they reached the town, though they were somewhat muffled by snow. A vast warm cave of light opened up to their right, a huge arch leading in to the courtyard of the inn. Stiff, exhausted and hungry, the passengers climbed out one by one. As if he were ashamed of his earlier behaviour, the man lifted Mary from Anne’s arms and helped her out of the coach.
‘I thank you, sir,’ she said.
‘’Tis nothing, madam. I’ll carry her into the inn while you gather up your brood.’
She shooed the children and servants after him, then reached into the coach for her heavy travelling bag, which she had stowed under the seat next to Hester’s basket of food. As she did so, a searing pain struck her back, then rippled round her stomach like a band of iron tightened. With a gasp, she lifted the bag out of the coach. Perhaps it was no more than backache brought on by the long and uncomfortable journey. But it gripped her like the first pains of labour.
Chapter Thirteen
The inn at Reading had been a warm refuge from the cold night journey, but by morni
ng all were scratching from the pests which colonised its bedding. As the passengers emerged into the grey dawn, they saw the two drivers arguing beside the great archway that opened from the inn courtyard on to the street beyond. From their gestures, it was clear that the subject of the dispute was the heavy layer of cloud that hung over the sky, threatening more snow. The air was still and frosty, as though it held its breath, and the stamping of the horses in the stables rang like a smith’s hammer blows, iron on iron.
The ostlers led out fresh horses and began to back them into the traces of the coach in which Anne had travelled on the previous day. As they did so, she saw the driver of the other coach throw up his hands in disgust and walk back into the inn.
‘See if you can discover what’s to-do, Peter,’ she said.
Peter accosted one of the ostlers, who shrugged and spat, and spoke a few words before joining those who were loading the passengers’ luggage back on to the roof of the coach.
‘The driver of the other coach refuses to set out,’ said Peter, returning to the group of passengers. ‘He fears a blizzard, and says his old coach won’t be able to get through to Oxford. Our driver will have none of it; he thinks the storm won’t break until we are nearly there, and we shan’t fare so ill.’
Most of the passengers from the other coach accepted the news with resignation, and returned to the inn to wait out the storm and travel the next day, but one man, by his dress a clergyman, was perturbed.
‘I must reach Oxford by this evening!’ he said. ‘It is of the utmost importance. I shall be obliged to join your coach.’
The man who had sat opposite Anne the previous day looked him up and down, and shook his head.