by Stella Riley
Nay, then let’s have none, says jabbering Joan
Nay – we’ll all be kings, says Prue.
Smiling wryly, Gabriel wondered if Henry could hear them. Then he turned his face to the river and went home.
*
During the course of the next week, Gabriel made an uneasy peace with Eden. Then, on the orders of the Lord General and with fifty men at his back, he coolly invaded the Weavers’ Hall and carried off twenty-eight of the forty thousand pounds that had been asked for to meet the Army’s arrears of pay. It wasn’t the kind of mission he would normally have enjoyed but it made a change from the daily tedium of the Tower and the rounds of endless meetings; and then again, his share might just enable him to pay Brandon Lacey’s taxes in full.
On December 10th, John Lilburne and his committee completed their work on the Agreement of the People and on the following day laid it proudly before the Officers’ Council in the expectation of seeing it immediately sent out for signature. Ireton, however, had other ideas and, backed by Cromwell, insisted on picking the document apart, clause by clause, in further debate.
Though presumably furious, Lilburne kept a tight rein on his temper and Samuel Radford, apparently taking copious notes, kept his head down. Gabriel, sitting at the back amongst his fellow officers, folded his arms and waited for the inevitable explosion.
By noon, when they were still debating which matters should be put outside Parliamentary control, he had come to the conclusion that – if it hadn’t been so jaw-crackingly boring – it might have been funny.
Ireton, though he frequently prefaced his speeches with “I desire but one word”, was rarely on his feet for less than half an hour at a time; Colonel Harrison blocked progress for over an hour by querying the precise wording of a single clause; and John Goodwin persisted in dragging the debate into the misty realms of deep theology … while some of the younger, less patient men present called every now and then for a vote.
They never took one. During the course of the afternoon, tempers started to fray and harsh words passed between the Levellers and the officers over whether the Agreement should or should not now be accepted without further delay. And when someone flung one insult too many at Lilburne’s head, he challenged the speaker to a duel.
Men from both sides surged to their feet, all shouting at once and, for a moment, it seemed that a fight was about to develop. Mr Radford laid down his quill looking optimistic and Sir Hardress Waller bellowed for order. Then, as soon as the din abated somewhat, Free-born John said cuttingly, ‘You are a pack of dissembling, juggling knaves – with neither faith, truth nor common honesty amongst you!’
Uproar broke out afresh but Lilburne stood his ground.
‘You’ve cozened and deceived us with your promises and turned Parliament into a mock-power who will fly to your swords for protection and bid us shake our ears for our Agreement. But no more, gentlemen. No more I say. From now on, I discharge myself from meddling with so perfidious a generation of men … especially the most cunning of all Machiavellians, Commissary Henry Ireton!’
And ignoring the tumult around him, he strode to the door and walked out.
Watching Samuel hurriedly scooping up his writing materials, Gabriel rose from his bench and stretched his cramped muscles. Then, when the younger man drew level with him, he walked out of the room beside him saying softly, ‘Why do I suspect there’s more to Lilburne’s withdrawal just now than meets the eye?’
‘Because there is.’ Sam grinned cheerfully. And, when he was sure of not being overheard, ‘What happened today wasn’t exactly unexpected – so arrangements have already been set in place to have the Agreement published.’
‘In an attempt to expedite matters – or so the public will know what he was trying to do for them?’
‘Both. Do you have objections – to the articles themselves, I mean?’
‘No. In many respects they seem a rather neat composite of the original Agreement and Ireton’s own Heads of the Proposals. I do, however, suspect that a document which requires the signature of every man with the vote isn’t especially practical. And I can’t help but wonder if Mr Lilburne isn’t being a little naïve in placing so much faith in the goodness of individual consciences.’
‘Perhaps so. But to do anything else would be to leave the way open to restriction and repression,’ returned Sam. Then, ‘I haven’t had the opportunity to thank you for what you said to Mr Morrell the other night.’
Gabriel gave a brief laugh.
‘I’m not sure thanks are in order. Did it work?’
‘Better than anything else has so far. He’s continued letting me visit Bryony and stopped ranting about my having introduced her to Free-born John. And yesterday he interrogated me about the state of my finances.’
Lazy amusement lit the dark grey eyes.
‘What you’re really saying is that you’re cautiously optimistic.’
‘Yes. Bryony, of course, is already planning her wedding-gown.’
‘Then let us hope she’s not going to be disappointed,’ said Gabriel. ‘But if she is, don’t bring her to me. At the end of a day such as today, I don’t respond especially well to youthful histrionics. And I really do have more important things on my mind.’
‘So I’ve heard. They say, for example, that you fell foul of the Commissary-General over the purge. Is it true?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Then you’d better watch your step, hadn’t you?’ Sam surveyed him with a gleam of mocking humour. ‘After all, it’s going to be rather embarrassing if you end up in the Tower. Who is going to get you out?’
*
As it happened, Sam’s optimism was better-founded than he knew for Jack was actually much closer to giving in than he was as yet prepared to reveal. Bryony’s attempt to fly the coop had a lot to do with this. And then there were the gentle persuasions of Annis.
‘This can’t go on, you know,’ she had said reasonably, as soon as Jack’s temper had cooled after the Colonel’s departure. ‘Gabriel is right. We can’t keep Bryony under lock and key – nor do we wish to try. So there’s really only one solution … and it’s not as though you dislike Sam.’
‘No. That’s just the trouble,’ agreed Jack ruefully. ‘And I accept that he loves her. But his politics still bother me because, if Lilburne continues standing in Ireton’s way, Sam may find himself in even bigger trouble than he was before.’
‘I think you’ll find that Bryony knows that.’
He met her gaze in silence for a moment and then grinned.
‘You’re saying I should set my reservations to one side and try talking to her.’
‘Actually, I wasn’t.’ Annis crossed the room to sit on his knee. ‘But it’s an excellent idea.’
So Jack encouraged Bryony to open her heart to him and also set about discovering whether Mr Radford had the means to support a wife. Then, having discussed his findings with Annis, he took himself off to Cheapside to confront his foster-brother.
He found Gabriel buckling on his sword whilst indulging in a typically terse argument with Mr Larkin.
‘Haven’t you been listening?’ snapped Wat.
‘Yes. You say you can’t find him – which probably means he isn’t here,’ returned Gabriel irritably. ‘Personally, I don’t give a tinker’s curse either way. I can look after myself. And what I don’t need is a bloody nursemaid.’
‘Who thinks you do?’ Jack strolled over the threshold, smiling. ‘Not Wat, surely?’
Two pairs of eyes encompassed him briefly and then locked with each other.
‘Sadly, yes,’ replied Gabriel blandly. ‘Old age is bringing out the mother in him.’
Wat spat hard into the fire.
‘Nice try,’ he grunted. ‘But you’ll have to do better than that if you want to get rid of me.’ And he stamped across the room and went out.
The outer door slammed and, for a moment, there was silence. Then Jack said cautiously, ‘What was all that about?’
>
‘Nothing in particular. Just daily life in the bear-pit.’ Waving him towards a chair, Gabriel turned away to pour wine. ‘Aside from apologising for my recent ill-humour – what can I do for you?’
‘You can come to supper next Thursday.’
‘Any special reason?’
‘Yes. I’ll be giving Bryony and Sam my blessing,’ replied Jack, accepting the glass. ‘And don’t flatter yourself that it’s all your doing. It’s not.’
‘No.’ Gabriel grinned suddenly. ‘The credit doubtless belongs to Annis.’
‘Most of it. So you’ll come, then?’
‘If I can.’ The grin faded. ‘Events are on the march again – with the result that I don’t know what I’ll be doing tomorrow, let alone next week. But I’ll try.’ He paused. ‘You’ll have heard that the Commons has reinstated the Vote of No Addresses, annulled the Newport talks and changed its mind about merely fining or banishing the Royalists?’
‘Yes. Though, with a hundred or so Members turned out by the purge and quantities of others refusing to sit in protest because of it, I’m surprised there are enough of them left to form a quorum.’
‘Some days there aren’t,’ admitted Gabriel. ‘But the strength of the Army more than makes up for it. Three days ago, Denzil Holles was expelled yet again and William Waller was placed under arrest. And this afternoon, the Officers’ Council voted to bring the King from Hurst Castle to Windsor.’
‘To what end?’ Jack frowned. ‘The Vote of No Addresses means further negotiation is out of the question.’
‘Yes. But only, you will realise, between His Majesty and the Parliament.’ The grey gaze became openly derisive. ‘And that’s not all. In what I can only assume to be an attempt to shake the King’s nerve, they’ve given the duty of transferring him from Hurst Castle to Thomas Harrison – whose well-known desire for the King’s death was what caused His Majesty to flee from Windsor in the first place.’
Mr Morrell stared broodingly into his wine. Then, meeting the Colonel’s eyes, he said, ‘No court in this land has the power to try a king. Have they thought of that?’
‘Constantly.’
‘But they’re still set on it.’
‘Some are – some aren’t,’ shrugged Gabriel. ‘At this stage, I wouldn’t like to predict what will happen – and am still hoping for the best. But the King is his own worst enemy. In the last three years he’s been offered terms from both the Army and Parliament … and it would have saved a lot of trouble and some lives if he’d stopped playing games and simply said yes to one or the other.’
*
While Colonel Harrison was at Hurst Castle arranging the King’s journey to Windsor, Lieutenant-General Cromwell veered gently away from the notion of regicide. And, by the time Harrison and his royal charge reached Winchester, the Earl of Denbigh had received Fairfax’s permission for a final, informal attempt to make His Majesty see reason.
On Thursday December 21st, Gabriel sat through a prolonged meeting of the Officers’ Council – for once without noticing that darkness was falling or even becoming unduly concerned by the knowledge that he was supposed to be supping in Shoreditch. The question under discussion was the fate of the King … and the last few days had seemingly brought about a significant shift of opinion.
Ireton, though he continued to demand the King’s immediate trial, was no longer asking for blood. He would be content, he declared, for His Majesty to be imprisoned until such time as he consented to give up his veto and abjure the Scots. Cromwell went even further. He suggested that the King’s trial be postponed until after those of Hamilton, Norwich and Holland. And, when a vote was finally taken, the Council rejected the notion of executing the King by a slender majority of five.
Gabriel ran lightly down the steps and out into the freezing night air, feeling more optimistic than he had in a month.
‘You took your time, didn’t you?’ grunted Mr Larkin.
‘Oh hell!’ He stopped abruptly, staring at his henchman with mingled amusement and annoyance. ‘Can’t you take a hint? Or is it just that you haven’t anything better to do?’
‘Some people are never grateful,’ observed Wat, setting off in the direction of the river.
‘And some others are just naturally bloody-minded,’ retorted Gabriel, falling into step with him. Then, ‘I’m going to Shoreditch and I’m late. Fortunately, I took the precaution of leaving my horse at the Tower.’
‘So did I,’ said Wat. And, with a sour grin, ‘Old I may be; senile I’m not. So let’s go – while the tide’s with us.’
Since only young men with more bravado than sense took a boat through the lethal currents under the Bridge, Gabriel instructed the waterman to set them down at the Old Swan stairs and then settled back to tell Wat about the Council’s latest vote while the Savoy Palace, Essex House and Puddle Wharf drifted away behind them. Then, as they approached the Three Cranes and the boatman began drawing his craft towards the bank, Gabriel asked Wat, with levity, if he’d had time to read the newly-published Agreement of the People.
He never got an answer. Something cold and deadly whistled through the air from the shadows of Dowgate and impaled the waterman through the chest. He slumped with an odd, gurgling sound and the oars disappeared overboard.
Wat was startled into a single, monosyllabic expletive before Gabriel sent him sprawling into the well of the boat and dropped down beside him, saying succinctly, ‘Crossbow.’
‘I noticed.’ Mr Larkin peered awkwardly across at the waterman. ‘He’s dead, I reckon. What did they want to go and shoot him for, poor devil?’
‘Easy option. We’re caught in the current and being sucked down to the Bridge. If they don’t shoot us, we drown – or get battered against the stanchions.’
Wat lifted a cautious head to verify this statement. Already gathering speed, the boat was being towed back into midstream and down towards the twenty narrow arches of London Bridge – while moonlight glancing off metal revealed that the marksman was keeping pace with them from the Steelyard.
Ducking back as a second bolt bit into the side of the boat, Wat said, ‘Sod it!’ And reached for his pistol.
‘What are you doing?’
‘What’s it look like? I’m going to take a shot at that bastard on the bank while I’ve got the chance.’
‘You won’t do it. We’re moving too fast.’
‘So? It’ll give him something to think about, won’t it? And meantime, you can get your boots off.’
It was sound advice, if a trifle difficult to achieve from a semi-prone position. By the time Gabriel managed it, Wat had taken his first shot, missed and was busy reloading.
‘Bloody buggering hell! Get rid of your sword and coat as well.’
‘Stop worrying about me and keep your head down!’ snapped Gabriel, his fingers already struggling with the laces of his buff leather – which, when wet, would take him to the bottom of the river in seconds. The Bridge, so far as he could see, was roughly forty yards away and closing fast. Casting off his coat and reaching for his own pistol, he began trying both to calculate the odds and work out some means of improving them. Unfortunately, with no way of either steering or slowing their progress, there wasn’t much they could do except ride it out and hope the boat stayed afloat.
Wat had finished reloading and was taking careful aim at the shadowy figure in the Steelyard – now once more rewinding his bow. In the poor light and with the distance steadily increasing, Wat was aware that his best chance would occur when the bastard stood upright again. Heaving himself on to his knees, he levelled his pistol and waited for the right moment. It was just plain back luck that, when it came, the boat was seized by the current.
The little craft dipped, shuddered and tilted sideways, throwing Wat against the gunnel and causing him to hold his fire. Then, in the brief second that the boat steadied again and he tried to regain his aim before they were sucked into the torrent raging about the Bridge, the marksman on the bank shot his bolt.
Deafened by the roar of the water and blinded by the rank-smelling darkness under the Bridge, Gabriel had to use every ounce of control he possessed not to immediately dive in after him. The boat scraped against stone, slowed, half-turned and picked up speed again. Then the Bridge was behind him and there was light. Frantically, Gabriel’s eyes scoured the surface of the water and were rewarded with a glimmer of something that surfaced, vanished and then surfaced again a few yards to his left. Rising to his feet, he cast himself into the icy blackness of the river and struck out towards it.
Swimming across the current was slow, gruelling work and the cold sapped his energy quicker than he had expected. But it was Wat. He was sure – almost sure – of that now. And in another dozen or so strokes, he would reach him. He must.
The tide bore him on past Botolph’s Wharf. Waves slapped him in the face, blurring his vision and, when his sight cleared again, there was nothing ahead of him but dark, empty water. Harnessing what remained of his strength, he took an immense gulp of air and dived down into a blackness so dense that he couldn’t even see his own hand. He swam blind until his lungs were bursting, hoping against hope to find what he sought by touch; and by the time he surfaced again, he found himself unable even to shout.
Common-sense receded in the face of desperation and he continued to swim about long after it was safe to do so. Lethargy invaded his limbs and numbed his senses. He saw nothing, heard nothing and knew only that the effort of simply keeping himself afloat was becoming intolerable. He slipped beneath the surface and arose choking. And then, just as he was about to give in, a boat-hook clawed painfully at his shoulder and dragged him back to consciousness.