Garland of Straw (Roundheads & Cavaliers Book 2)

by Stella Riley

  When he finally stopped speaking, Justice Bacon rose without hesitation and delivered the court’s reply.

  ‘We have borne with your eloquence most patiently, Mr Lilburne. However, the House of Lords is a superior court to this one … and I have not the power to interfere with its judgement. I therefore have no alternative but to remand you back to the Tower.’

  An angry growl rumbled through the crowd and the troopers in the doorway tensed visibly. A woman shrieked, ‘If you’re frightened to gainsay their lordships – why did you let John appeal at all, you great gobby lout?’

  There was a murmur of general agreement. Inside the court, Free-born John threw back his head and, in a voice ringing with passion, said, ‘If this is good law which you declare to me, then we are indeed all perfect slaves!’

  The well-wishers surged like boiling soup. Justice Bacon, deciding enough was enough, ordered the troopers back inside and had the doors slammed shut.

  ‘What now?’ shouted Bryony, over the noise around them.

  ‘Nothing. They’ll take him out another way in case of trouble. Not that there’ll be any. Carrying him out of there by force isn’t the answer – and there are regiments in the Mews, just waiting for the chance to break our heads if we should be silly enough to try.’

  ‘But we can’t just walk away!’

  ‘That’s the only thing we can do.’ Sam paused and then said abruptly, ‘I’m taking you home. I ought never to have brought you in the first place. Violence erupts at the least provocation these days – and what kind of protection do you think I’ll be if we get caught in the midst of a riot?’

  Bryony looked back into the bright, dark eyes and suddenly discovered something so breathtakingly obvious that she ought to have known it long ago. Over the strange hiatus in her chest, she said slowly, ‘As much as anyone else – and more so than most. But I wouldn’t want you hurt for my sake. And naturally you must keep your promise to Uncle Jack.’

  Sam swore under his breath before saying irritably, ‘Do you think that’s all I care about?’

  ‘I know it isn’t. But it’s fairly important, just the same.’ She smiled and, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, added reasonably, ‘After all, if we can’t manage to convince him that you can look after me, he’s never going to consent to our being married, is he?’

  For a long, airless moment Sam stood very still and simply stared at her. Then, drawing her briskly out of the crowd and down the steps into the drizzle outside, he said, ‘For the sake of brevity, I’ll overlook the fact that the last time we spoke of your affections they were securely centred on Colonel Brandon. But precisely what have I done to make you think I’d any notion of marrying you?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Not at all cast down, Bryony returned his gaze with a sort of shining confidence. ‘But you love me, don’t you? Every bit as much as I love you.’

  Sam worked hard at keeping both eyes and voice carefully blank.

  ‘Have I said as much – or even hinted at it?’

  ‘No. But —’

  ‘Then I suggest you wait until I do. And as for your sudden decision to love me … you’ll have to forgive me if I say I find it very hard to believe.’

  She frowned a little and then her brow cleared again and she nodded.

  ‘I can’t really blame you for that. I was very silly about Gabriel. I know that now. So it’s up to me to prove that I’ve grown up and that what I feel for you is real. For it is, you know. And one day you’ll believe me.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Sam, steering her uncompromisingly towards the river so that he could hail a boat to take her home. ‘But in the meantime, don’t expect to charm any unwary declarations out of me, my girl – for I can tell you here and now that you certainly won’t do it.’

  *

  While Bryony wondered how she could have come to love Sam so much without even knowing it, the New Model managed to defeat Rowland Laugharne’s Welshmen and Londoners took to the streets shouting for the King instead of attending the thanksgiving services for their Army’s victory. Riots in Bury St Edmunds over the setting up of a maypole had to be crushed by the county militia, the Surrey bank became a hotbed of discontent and Sym Potter told Venetia that, though he’d so far been unsuccessful in finding Sir Ellis, he had met another acquaintance of hers.

  ‘Captain Langley?’ echoed Venetia.

  ‘Aye. He said he’d be at The Leg on King Street tomorrow morning. But he’s seen neither hide nor hair of Sir Ellis. I’ve already asked him.’

  ‘That’s a shame. But he’ll have other news.’

  ‘Happen he will.’ Sym’s gaze was dourly disapproving. ‘You intend going, then?’

  ‘Of course.’ Venetia smiled. ‘But not, you’ll be glad to hear, on my own.’

  They arrived at The Leg to find Francis swathed in a shabby cloak and lounging in the corner with a pot of ale. His eyes, however, were full of all their usual languid audacity and, as Venetia slid on to the settle beside him, he drawled, ‘God’s greetings, my dear. You’ll have to forgive me for not doing you the courtesy to bow – but I’ve never learned to do it clumsily and Court graces don’t exactly belong in a hole such as this.’

  ‘Modest as ever, I see,’ remarked Venetia. And then, ‘How are you, Francis? And, more to the point, what have you been up to all this time?’

  ‘Oh – this and that. I spent a few weeks on the Isle of Wight conferring with a fellow named Firebrace who’s been trying to arrange the King’s escape.’ He sighed faintly. ‘I don’t envy him his task. He’d have accomplished it two months ago if His Majesty hadn’t been unshakably convinced that he could get between the bars at his window without bothering to remove any of them first.’

  ‘And he couldn’t?’

  ‘No. He got stuck and the venture had to be called off. If it were not so serious, it would be comic. And, of course, the farce goes on. Firebrace hatched another plan involving disguises but the man who was to have gone in wearing it looked so odd that the guards wouldn’t admit him. And when Firebrace went back to the original scheme – but with the aid of files and aqua fortis – His Majesty said that he’d gone off the idea. Marvellous, isn’t it?’

  ‘But His Majesty is well?’ she asked.

  ‘Perfectly. In fact, Parliament’s recent troubles have put something of a spring in his step. I only hope, for his sake, that his confidence isn’t misplaced.’

  ‘Yes.’ Venetia frowned down at her hands. ‘How much real support does he have? The kind that’s more than just weariness of the Parliament, the Army and the excise?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. Essex is ready to rise and Kent, too, I believe – though I’ll know more of that tomorrow when I join up with Lord Holland. As for what’s happening further North, I know no more than you. But the plain truth is that small pockets of rebellion will do us no good whatsoever unless we can ensure that they happen simultaneously. And that requires a miracle of organisation.’

  Venetia’s mouth curled. She said without thinking, ‘Gabriel could probably do it. How unfortunate that his services are already committed to the other side.’

  ‘Gabriel? Are you talking about the archangel, my dear?’

  ‘No. I meant my husband,’ she replied absently. Then, colouring uncomfortably, ‘Ah. But you wouldn’t know about that that.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Francis smoothly. ‘Supposing you tell me.’

  She hesitated and then, in as few words as possible, did so. When she had finished, Francis eyed her in silence for a long moment before saying with rare simplicity, ‘I won’t waste time sympathising with you. I’m sure it’s the last thing you need. But I can’t help wondering why you’re trying to find Ellis.’

  ‘I have my reasons.’ Venetia paused. ‘Do you know who arranged the Duke of York’s escape?’

  ‘An intelligence officer named Bamfield. Why?’

  ‘I just wanted to make sure of something.’ She gave a small, bitter laugh and changed the subject. ‘Eden Maxwell has gone
North with Lambert, by the way. And Kate’s in Genoa with her Italian. I thought you’d like to know.’

  ‘You had that from Eden?’ he asked sharply.

  ‘Yes. He serves under Gabriel, so we’ve met a couple of times.’ She stopped, struck by the rapidly escalating clamour from the street outside. ‘What is that?’

  Francis rose and peered through the window. A motley procession was marching in the direction of Westminster, surrounded by sympathisers chanting ‘For God and King Charles!’

  ‘It’s the Surrey men with their petition,’ he shrugged.

  ‘Demanding what?’

  ‘All the usual things. Disbandment of the Army, dissolution of the Commons, reinstatement of the King and restoration of all the old, known laws. Where are you going?’

  Venetia was already heading towards the door where Sym stood, clutching a tankard of ale. Over her shoulder, she said, ‘Where do you think? I want to see for myself.’

  Mr Potter stepped nimbly into her path.

  ‘Best stay here and let ’em pass, Mistress. There’ll likely be trouble afore day’s out.’

  He was immediately impaled on a very direct stare.

  ‘I appreciate your concern but I won’t have you control my actions,’ said Venetia crisply. ‘Stand aside.’

  ‘Don’t be stubborn, dear heart.’ Francis had arrived at her elbow. ‘Do you think that either he or I want to chance a cracked head on your account?’

  ‘Then leave me to take care of myself,’ she retorted. And ducked smartly under Sym’s arm, into the flowing tide of bodies in the street.

  As the crowd swept her along, she was dimly aware that Sym and Francis had dived in behind her and were desperately trying to catch up. It ought not to have been funny but with exhilaration bursting through her veins, she could not help laughing.

  At her side, a girl in a soiled, gaudy dress laughed too and, over the din around them, shouted, ‘That’s right, love! We’ll tell them buggers in Parliament a thing or two – and show ’em we’re not frightened neither.’

  Venetia smiled back, kept a tight hold on her cloak and joined in with the collective cry.

  Things quietened down a bit as the head of the procession reached Westminster and sent its petition in to both Houses – thus enabling Francis and Sym to finally battle their way to Venetia’s side. Aside from the fact that her hair was tumbling down her back, she was quite unscathed and appeared to be enjoying a cheerful conversation with a girl in red whose occupation Francis identified at a glance.

  ‘Are you completely insane?’ he demanded, without a trace of his customary languor. ‘You might have been killed.’

  ‘But I wasn’t.’

  The crimson-clad girl eyed Captain Langley admiringly and then winked at Venetia.

  ‘He’s a handsome one. Your husband, is he?’

  Venetia shook her head and, unable to resist the temptation, said coyly, ‘Just a … friend.’

  She was rewarded with a scream of raucous laughter.

  ‘Some people have all the luck. Wouldn’t mind a tumble with him myself. I bet he looks even better with his clothes off.’

  Francis winced but was not noticeably embarrassed. He said, ‘Come on, Venetia. Enough is enough and it’s time you got out of here and went home.’

  ‘Not yet.’ She shook his hand away. ‘I’m not stirring a step until I know how the Commons have replied.’

  Since, short of throwing her over his shoulder, there was no way to remove her from the crowd, Francis exchanged a look of mutual frustration with Sym and set about using his considerable powers of persuasion. Venetia told him to save his breath. And then the crowd started to surge onwards again. Though the Lords had acknowledged the petition, the Commons had refused to do so; and so somewhere ahead of Venetia, Francis and Sym, the men of Surrey had begun forcing their way into Westminster Hall.

  The old chant of ‘For God and King Charles!’ gradually turned into a thunderous new cry of ‘An old King and a new Parliament!’ Francis swore furiously and tried once more to hold Venetia back. She halted briefly, tore her arm from his grasp to an ominous accompaniment of rending stitches and resumed her stride. The girl in red swirled away ahead of her and was lost from sight.

  The crowd accelerated its progress, leaving Francis and Sym with no alternative but that of simply keeping up. Then they were borne on into the vast, timbered space of Westminster Hall. The scene was one of utter confusion. Angry voices rang out ahead of them and, from behind, Francis could already hear the steady tramp of booted feet.

  ‘Hell!’ he muttered. And, seizing a handful of silver-gilt hair, hauled Venetia ruthlessly into the shelter of one of the lesser-court alcoves which lined the walls.

  She howled and then forgot her pain as the first ranks of well-drilled infantry marched past her. On they came, row upon row, into the centre of the Hall where the Surrey ring-leaders stood waiting to face them. Venetia held her breath while the air seemed to shimmer with tension. And then all hell broke loose.

  The petitioners, determined to avoid being evicted before they had received their answer, made a futile attempt at resistance and, without anyone being quite sure how it happened, a soldier was spitted on the end of somebody’s blade. Infuriated but still remarkably disciplined, the five-hundred strong regiment immediately started clearing the Hall at push of pike as mercilessly as if they had been on a battlefield. Shouts and screams filled Venetia’s ears as, crushed between Francis and Sym, she watched men being knocked unconscious and trampled beneath the feet of their friends who were now fleeing into Palace Yard.

  It was over in minutes for the petitioners had no chance at all against trained troops and they left the Hall littered with their wounded. Very slowly, as if cramp had invaded every muscle, Venetia turned from the human wreckage in front of her to look sombrely up at Captain Langley and said, ‘They only came to deliver a petition, for God’s sake! Why couldn’t the Commons just receive and acknowledge it?’

  ‘You know why,’ returned Francis bitterly. ‘It’s because, having made war on the King to put an end to his so-called tyranny, Parliament has now become the tyrant His Majesty never was. But this is no place to discuss that. Let’s see if we can find a boat to get us away from here.’

  This, as it turned out, was impossible. By the time they reached the waterside, the river had become the setting for scenes even more violent than those which had just taken place inside Westminster. Many of the petitioners had taken to the water in small boats from whence they were subjecting the troopers to a hail of coal and brickbats.

  Keeping Venetia well back from the fray, Francis looked on in silence while he pondered the safest way of getting her home. Before he could make a decision, however, the soldiers on the river-bank came to the end of their patience when one of their officers was felled by a flying billet. They reached for their muskets and began to fire at will on the unruly protesters. A man was hit in the shoulder and another went down like a stone from a shot to the head. The mood of the day had suddenly changed into one which would result in more than a few bruises and broken bones. Suddenly people were dying.

  Venetia started as the first shot rang out and then froze as her eye was caught by a familiar scarlet gown. For a moment, its owner stood arms akimbo in one of the boats, mouthing a series of shrill and probably lewd taunts at the musketeers on the bank; then it jerked convulsively … and, with an odd, dreamlike slowness, topped into the water to float like a bright pool of blood on the surface.

  Her eyes wide and stark, Venetia took a step forward only to be stopped by Francis’s hand.

  ‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘There’s nothing you can do for her. I’m sorry you’re distressed but I can only suggest that the next time someone gives you a piece of good advice, you take it. Now let’s get out of here while we still can. I’ve an appointment in Kent that I don’t want to miss.’

  With Sym’s help, Venetia managed to get home and into her bedchamber unseen which, since her gown was badly t
orn and her hair in total disarray, saved a lot of unwanted explanation. It also gave her the opportunity for an extremely rare indulgence. She sat down and cried.

  *

  During the course of the next week or so, the Parliament succeeded in conciliating the Common Council of the City by giving it more control over the Militia. Jack was pleased but Venetia considered it no epitaph for those who’d died at Westminster … and, in the event, it did nothing to stop the storm which was about to break.

  On May 21st, Kentish Royalists – aided, no doubt, by Captain Francis Langley – took possession of Rochester, Sittingbourne, Sandwich and Faversham; and five days later, despite the Parliament having hurriedly agreed to re-open talks with the King, Deptford and Dartford went the same way. Then, as Sir Thomas Fairfax was on the point of abandoning his intention to march North in favour of moving to secure Southwark, mutiny erupted in the fleet. Six ships declared for His Majesty. They refused to take Vice-Admiral Rainsborough on board, reduced the castles of Walmer, Sandown and Deal and finally laid siege to Dover.

  While the City lay under a pall of expectancy and Venetia lived with a maelstrom of mixed emotions, the Commons gloomily recognised its mistake in appointing Rainsborough to the Navy where his Leveller views were universally despised. They hurriedly replaced him with the Earl of Warwick, despatched the Colonel back to the Army and settled down to an uneasy night of hoping for the best.

  Jack brought the news back to Shoreditch along with all the latest rumours.

  ‘They’re saying twenty thousand Kentish Royalists will rendezvous with a similar number from Essex tomorrow at Blackheath. Apparently, they plan to throw a bridge of boats over the Thames to ease communications between the two counties – in which they expect to be supported by the Navy.’

  Annis laid down her knife and pushed her plate aside. She said tonelessly, ‘It’s starting all over again, isn’t it? The taking of sides and being at odds with your neighbours … and the killing. And for what? So the Parliament and the Army and the King can go on squabbling endlessly amongst themselves while the rest of us suffer?’