by Ann Swinfen
Before Crewe could answer, the Provost Marshal entered the room, attended by his usual complement of musketeers. Everyone stopped what they were doing and eyed him warily. Captain Lawrence’s appearance always heralded some significant move on the part of the Army Council.
‘I have here a list of names,’ said Lawrence. ‘Those whose names are read out are to collect cloaks and hats and accompany me to Whitehall, to attend on the Lord General Fairfax, in his lodgings at the Palace.’
There was a mutter of annoyance at those words ‘attend on’, as if Fairfax were a monarch and they but poor suppliants.
‘Not Fairfax’s words, I’ll be bound,’ said Crewe. ‘Why does the man permit them to use his name so?’
‘Perhaps he’s as powerless as we,’ John suggested.
‘How many names on your list?’ enquired John Bulkeley.
‘Sixteen,’ said Lawrence, and proceeded to read them out. Crewe’s name was amongst them.
John gripped his hand before he went.
‘God go with you,’ he said.
‘And you.’
Then they were gone. Those who remained looked at each other speculatively. Were they to be the fortunate or the unfortunate ones in this division of their numbers? The sense of unease stayed with them as the day wore on. As usual, dinner was served some time between three and four o’clock, and there was speculation whether their friends would be left hungry, as they had all been on that previous summons to Whitehall. Then, in the early evening, the others came marching back.
John drew Crewe aside at once.
‘Well?’
‘We’re set free, without conditions.’ Crewe’s voice was astonished.
‘What happened? Did you see Fairfax?’
‘As before, they kept us waiting for hours. They’re little clay gods, trying to puff up their importance by practising tyranny towards others who may not strike back. There was no need to force us to wait—in that same cold room, without a fire, chairs or food. It was meant only to humiliate us.’
‘And Fairfax?’
‘Nay,’ Crewe snorted. ‘We never had a sight of Fairfax. At long last, Ireton, Rich and Whalley come out to us, all false smiles and pretended apologies.’
‘Commissary Ireton again. He’s everywhere.’
‘Aye. So, out they come, and they say, they regret that the Lord General is sick, and cannot see us.’
‘Sick!’
‘Oh, mark my words,’ said Crewe, ‘he was not sick. Either he still refuses to be a part of all this, and pretends to be sick, or else he was not at Whitehall at all, and they merely pretended that he was, in order to keep up the myth that everything is being done in his name. Either way, I don’t think we have Black Tom to blame for our imprisonment.’
‘And you’re truly set free? Why are you come back here?’
‘We are free. They’ve permitted us to come and collect any belongings. I suspect, also, they wish to torment the rest of you with the thought that you’ve been passed over this time.’ He looked at the unfinished game of chess. ‘We’ll have to finish that another day.’
John leaned over and scooped up the pieces, dropping them into the pocket of his doublet.
‘When we meet again in happier times, my friend.’
Crewe embraced him briefly.
‘I’ll try to get word of your family and write to you. But I expect that you’ll soon be set free. They have achieved what they desired. They’ve occupied London with the army. They’ve destroyed Parliament. They rule by decree of this so-called Army Council, which is no more than a group of unelected cronies. They’ve seized the king. What harm can we do them now? Our Parliamentary army is subverted, and our duty to represent the people is snatched from us. I think I shall leave London and retire to my estate, until we can decide what to do.’
John shook his head.
‘I fear we shall remain powerless. Is there any word of what they intend to do to the king?’
‘None. It’s my belief they’ll devise a mock trial before long, when they’ve agreed how to dress it up as justice. A man of blood, Charles Stuart. But even such a man deserves a fair trial.’
‘He will not get it,’ said John.
‘Come, gentlemen,’ Lawrence called from the door of the dining room, where he stood impatiently waiting. ‘You must leave these other fellows now, and come away.’
During the last few days before Christmas, two more were released, and afterwards the remaining prisoners from both inns were all gathered together at the King’s Head. The frustration and boredom of the prisoners were now lightened by the hope that, one by one, they would all regain their freedom, except perhaps for the five officers who had been carried off to St James’s.
On Christmas Eve, which was also a Sunday, they persuaded the guards to allow them a parson to conduct a service of prayers and psalms. It was not the same eager young man who had visited them before. An older man, grey-haired, gaunt and nervous, he nevertheless did his duty by them.
‘And what,’ John asked, as the parson packed away his surplice and bible, ‘are the feelings of the London clergy? Do they support the army?’
The man cast an apprehensive glance at the door behind which the guards might be listening.
‘N . . . nay.’ He cleared his throat and dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘We have held two meetings during this last week, and we’re all of one mind. We’ve vowed to drive on furiously in support of the prisoners. At whatever . . . whatever cost to ourselves.’
The next day dawned slowly, the weak winter sun obscured by heavy snow clouds once again. From the Abbey and other nearby churches, the bells rang out to greet Christ’s Nativity. As their iron voices reached the prisoners, they carried a message of encouragement. The inn itself, under the heavy armed guard, was permitted no Christmas festivities. No evergreens decked the rooms, no Yule Log burned in the hearth, no kissing ring hung from the smoke-darkened beams. After the pealing of the bells, the city fell silent. The streets were deserted. The itinerant street peddlers, who usually filled the air with their strange raucous cries, had stayed at home, preferring to spend the holy day with their families, even if their celebrations must needs be somewhat furtive. In the inn, the prisoners were disinclined to talk, mostly sitting and reading their Bibles or writing letters. A few retired to pray in the privacy of their chambers. About mid-day the swollen clouds began to spill forth their burden of snow, which fell in heavy, silent swathes, undisturbed today by any wind.
Everyone in the dining room heard the loud banging on the outside door, and then the familiar tones of Captain Lawrence issuing orders. When he came in, they looked at him expectantly. Whose turn would it be to go free? Or were more to join the prisoners at St James’s?
‘Sir Robert Harley,’ said Lawrence.
‘Here,’ said Harley.
‘And your son. Edward Harley?’
‘Yes?’
‘I have orders to set you free, but with conditions. You shall remain under guard in your own house here in London, not leaving there except by command of the Army Council.’
Sir Robert expostulated, but half-heartedly. The cold he had been suffering at the time of their arrest had grown steadily worse, developing into an influenza. He spent most of his time huddled over the fire in the common room, drawing harsh, rasping breaths. He had lost weight. Blue shadows ringed his sunken eyes. At night, he needed help to climb the stairs to his chamber, where he would have stayed in bed all day, but for the bitter cold which sheeted the insides of the windows with ice. After that first evening, when the innkeeper had had fires lit in their chambers, they had been deprived of this small comfort.
When the Harleys were gone, John invited Edward Leigh to a game of chess, but he declined, saying he had no head for it. Leigh, like John, was a member for Stafford. While not close friends, they had known each other and worked together for several years, as justices of the peace, members of the County Committee, and now as Members of Parliame
nt.
‘Not many of us remaining now,’ said Leigh.
‘Eleven,’ said John, ‘I’ve just been counting. ‘With the five now in St James’s, sixteen of us still imprisoned.’
‘Do you think they mean to set us free?’
‘Why not set us all free when Crewe and the others were released?’ said John. ‘I can’t fathom their intentions. I suppose it’s a kind of compliment, this game of cat at the mouse-hole. It seems they think us very dangerous men indeed, if they suppose they must keep us still imprisoned—helpless and unarmed as we are—when they have the whole of the New Model Army and its weapons at their backs.’
Leigh gave a rueful smile.
‘Well enough that men of note such as yourself should be considered a danger, but I’m simply one of the silent mass who opposed them in Parliament. A humble colonel for a while, it’s true. But I’m better known for my scholarly work than for my politics. While I could serve my country, I was happy to do so, but now I’d be glad to return to my library.’
Aye, Leigh made a sound point. John could not understand why influential leaders of men like Crewe had been released, while quiet Leigh was still here. Perhaps their enemies had merely forgotten about him.
‘I’ll make you a wager,’ said Leigh, ‘that the next of us to be set free is Will Prynne.’ He jerked his head in Prynne’s direction. ‘He’s busy drawing up some legal document or other.’
John laughed.
‘I’ll not take up your wager, for it’s my belief too that Prynne will soon be away. Tell me, have you any word from home? How does Mistress Leigh fare? Has she the house set to rights?’
Leigh’s family had not accompanied him to London, but remained behind at Rushall Hall in Staffordshire, their house which had earlier been fought over by King’s men and Parliament’s men, and looted by both.
‘A letter came two days ago. I’d written to tell my wife that I was safe, but she hadn’t received my letter when she wrote to me. By little and little she’s trying to repair the damage. Did you know, they even stole the curtain rods? Over a hundred of them! I was prepared for the loss of the stock and the weapons, but the house was stripped of everything: furniture, cushions, fire irons, feather bolsters, tapestries, kitchen goods—anything they could lay hands on. Our own army, I fear, was no better than the other sort. It’s a dubious blessing to inherit a manor fortified during the wars between York and Lancaster, and still as defensible as a castle today—everyone wants to take possession of it! Fortunately, I’d hidden away my books. Some of them are very ancient and precious. Mistress Swynfen is gone home, I believe?’
‘Aye. They should all be safely at Swinfen with my father by this. All but our eldest boy, who’s a scholar at Charterhouse.’
‘I pray we’ll soon be back in the country with them ourselves,’ said Leigh.
The Army Council lost no time, at the start of the new year, in setting up a form of court to try the king. As such a trial had never before been held, there was much arguing about the appropriate form it should take, but by the ninth day of January the prisoners heard that the court had already begun its sessions to try the king, although Charles Stuart himself was not present. He was still held at Hurst Castle, and was to be brought to London in about a week’s time.
John found the confinement at the King’s Head slightly less irksome now that there were but eleven of them still in hold. The rooms were no longer crowded, and he shared his chamber with Prynne alone, so each had a bed to himself. This meant a better night’s sleep, and with more sleep at night he felt more cheerful by day. Now, on this same ninth day of January, Prynne received the news that his case for a writ of habeas corpus had been allowed. He was to go free. He shook John by the hand before he left.
‘I’ll see what’s to be done on the outside,’ he said. ‘I intend to publish a detailed account of the monstrous behaviour of these army tyrants. The world shall not remain in ignorance of their actions and our sufferings.’
John smiled.
‘Be careful what you do, Will, or they’ll thrust you back in here amongst us before you can walk a mile in the streets of London.’
But he knew his warning would never be heeded by Prynne.
More than a week after Prynne had left, a guard came in one morning to say that John had a visitor. Few visitors had appeared at the King’s Head. The Packers, despite their promise, had not returned, perhaps concerned that over-friendliness with the prisoners might harm their son, now himself one of the secluded members. Most of the prisoners’ friends and families had fled London. Others were being watched, and dared not risk coming. John hoped his visitor might be Crewe, with news that the rest were to be released, but the slight figure following the guard was not Crewe, it was his son Dick.
He stood up, astonished. How had Dick contrived to come here? Dick knelt for his blessing, then rose and embraced his father. He was not far below his father in height, although he still had a boy’s angular frame and slight build. He was fairer than either of his parents, with chestnut brown hair, through which he ran his fingers nervously, holding his hat before him like a shield.
‘Dick! I hadn’t thought to see you. Why aren’t you at school?’
He led his son to a quiet corner away from the rest.
‘We had a break from school for Christmas, though the Master was as jumpy about it as a cat on a gridiron. He’s a Royalist, you see, Father, so he expects at any moment to be turned out of his position. That means he’s sometimes more puritan than the Puritans in his dealings with us. Anyway, the other parents came to fetch their sons away, so I took myself off to Aunt Coleman, as Mama bade me.’
‘Have you heard from your mother?’
‘Not a word. Not since she came and tried to steal me out from under the Master’s nose. She didn’t manage it, for he’s a hater of the fair sex.’
John frowned. He did not like the thought of Anne going against his will by trying to fetch Dick from school, nor did he like the levity of Dick’s tone.
‘You would do well to show respect for the Master, Dick, whatever his political views.’
‘Oh, I respect him as a scholar, but he’s something of a tyrant, Father, and you always taught us to stand up against tyranny.’
Caught in my own trap, thought John wryly. Still, he would not waste these precious minutes quarrelling with the boy. He gave Dick an account of what had happened to him since his arrest.
‘And as so many are let go, we hope every day that it will be our turn next.’
‘Is the rest of the family away to Swinfen?’ said Dick.
‘Aye, more than a month ago. I’ve heard nothing, but in these troubled times that doesn’t surprise me.’
He studied his son thoughtfully. The boy wore a faint air of defiance, as if he expected to be caught out in some misdeed. John knew that look well.
‘It must be—what? — the twentieth of January now. Why are you not back in school, Dick?’
‘I caught a bad rheum when I was walking from school to Holborn in the snow, and after Christmas Aunt Coleman kept me in bed with hot bricks to my feet and possets of honey and horehound to drink. It was a great change from school, I can tell you. There we shiver under one damp blanket, arise in the dark to wash under a freezing pump in the courtyard, and study for three hours before we have a breakfast of well water and dry bread. It’s not how a gentleman should live, Father.’
‘A gentleman should accept what befalls him and make the best of it,’ said John, uncomfortably aware how pompous he sounded. ‘And you’re quite well again now?’
‘So my aunt thinks. I’m to go back to school, but I begged leave to visit you first. She’s worried for you, and so is Doctor Coleman. We have had no word but a note from Master Crewe, to say you were imprisoned here. And she thought you might have heard from Mama.’
‘I’m glad Crewe wrote to her. And I’m glad to see you, Dick. It’s a long walk you’ve had, from Holborn nearly to Charing Cross.’
>
‘Oh, I’m strong,’ said Dick cheerfully. He twisted on his stool, till his back was to the rest of the room, and spoke in a lowered voice. ‘I’ve brought some things for you: pen and ink and paper, for Aunt knew you would be wanting to write letters. And some of her preserves. And a cheese.’
He pulled these items out of the breast of his doublet and handed them to his father.
‘She’s given me some provisions for school. I left them in my knapsack outside the door, so the soldiers never thought to search me.’
‘Is there any news of the king?’ asked John. ‘Little by little we hear things, but sometimes it takes many days.’
‘He was moved to London yesterday, and is to go on trial this very day,’ said Dick, his voice filled with awe at the thought of it.
‘We must all pray for him,’ said John, ‘for I fear he has not long to live.’
‘And have you heard the other news?’ Dick cried, his solemn tone quite gone.
‘What news is that?’
‘Edward Massey has escaped! One of his servants went to visit him at St James’s Palace dressed as a woman. They exchanged clothes and out strolls Massey, calm as you please, a very demure serving maid. His servant then leaves dressed as a man, and of course his face is quite unknown, he’s not wanted by anyone. What an adventure!’ His eyes glowed. ‘They say Massey has escaped to Holland.’
John broke into laughter, his first real laughter for weeks. Massey had said he would not be confined, and here he was, true to his word. He stood up and waved to catch his fellow prisoners’ attention.
‘Hear this, gentlemen! Edward Massey has escaped! Let’s drink to him!’
There was a great cheer from the others, who crowded round, begging Dick to repeat every detail he had heard of the story.
‘Now, then, Dick lad,’ said John Birch. ‘Why didn’t you think of that? You might have come today dressed as a maid, and set your father free!’