by Stella Riley
She moved into the shelter of his arm to look down at it with him and eventually said oddly, ‘Yes. Handwritten in old English and – and signed. Or so it appears.’
‘Signed by whom?’ asked Sophia.
Gabriel and Venetia exchanged glances. Then Venetia said remotely, ‘Geoffrey Chaucer.’
The effect was remarkable. Sophia shot out of her seat and James Bancroft stopped staring into the middle distance. In perfect unison, they said, ‘Let me see it!’
Smiling, Gabriel passed it over to the erstwhile bishop and watched Sophia close in on him. For a moment, they simply stared at it, their faces expressing awed reverence; and then, drawing an awed breath, Mr Bancroft said, ‘To Rosemounde. A Balade.’
‘Who’s Rosamund?’ asked Phoebe.
‘Philippa, probably,’ said Sophia dreamily. ‘Hugh’s wife, you know.’
Phoebe’s eyes widened.
‘You mean … you mean you think this really is the Garland?’
‘It must be. Chaucer was employed by John of Gaunt – so what would be more natural than for the Duke to commission a poem for Philippa? Read it, James. Your eyes are better than mine.’
Mr Bancroft cleared his throat.
Madame, ye ben of al beauty a shryne
As fer as circled is the mappemounde;
For as the cristal glorious ye shyne
And lyke ruby ben your chekes rounde.
Therewith ye ben so mery and so jocounde
That at a revel whan that I see you daunce,
It is an oyenment unto my wounde,
Thogh ye to me ne do no daliaunce.
He paused and Phoebe said disgustedly, ‘What on earth is it supposed to mean?’
‘It means,’ said Venetia, ‘that, contrary to popular belief, Hugh Brandon was not given Lacey Manor because John of Gaunt had bedded the fair Philippa.’
‘How do you work that out?’
‘Though ye to me nay do no dalliance,’ said Gabriel, with a grin. ‘The language may be archaic but the sense is plain enough. I know how he feels. I was having the same trouble myself until quite recently.’
‘And will again if you don’t mind your manners,’ said Venetia severely. Then, to her uncle, ‘Well? What do you think?’
‘I think,’ he said at length, his voice still a trifle dazed, ‘that what we have here is an original manuscript written in Chaucer’s own hand.’
There was a sudden, acute silence.
‘Does that make it valuable?’ asked Phoebe.
‘I would imagine that some scholars or collectors might be willing to pay a great deal in order to acquire it, yes.’
‘If,’ said Gabriel, ‘we were to sell it.’
Phoebe sat down with a bump.
‘What do you mean – if? That piece of paper could conceivably pay the taxes on Brandon Lacey for years.’
‘Yes.’ He turned to Venetia and meditative dark grey eyes locked with smiling amethyst ones. ‘But we can do that by our own efforts. Perhaps … perhaps Philippa’s gift is meant for something less mundane. Or am I being unusually fanciful?’
‘No,’ breathed Venetia. ‘Or, if you are, then I am, too.’
Phoebe stared at Sophia.
‘Do you know what they’re talking about?’
‘I believe so. But it’s for them to say.’
‘Then I wish they’d hurry up and do it!’
Without removing his eyes from Venetia, Gabriel said, ‘We’re not going to sell it, Phoebe. It hasn’t waited two and a half centuries just for that … and neither, in a sense, is it ours to sell. It belongs to Brandon Lacey and the time may come when Brandon Lacey needs it. But that time isn’t now.’
‘So you’re just going to keep it?’
‘No.’ Venetia’s voice was warm and confident. ‘More than that. We’re going to find a new resting-place for it so that one day – just like Sophy and all the generations before her – our children and grandchildren will look for it. And we’ll trust that, if the time of need comes, the Garland will want to be found once more.’
~ ~ ~
SOUTHWARK
March, 1649
If we look upon what this House has done since it voted itself the Supreme Authority and disburdened itself of the power of the Lords – first we find a High Court of Justice erected whereby the way of trial by twelve sworn men is infringed. The next is the censuring of a Member of this House for declaring his judgement in a point of religion. Then the stopping of our mouths from Printing is carefully provided for … and the most severe Ordinances of Parliament to gag us from speaking truth and discovering the tyrannies of bad men are referred to the General – in searching, fining, imprisoning and other ways corporally punishing all that be guilty of unlicensed printing. Whereby our Liberties have been more deeply wounded than since the beginning of this Parliament.
from England’s New Chains
John Lilburne
February, 1649
EPILOGUE
Despite having finally been awarded his long-awaited compensation, John Lilburne returned to London in February in a state of bitter disillusion. His efforts to secure the liberties of the people had been undone by the Officers’ Council; he’d opposed the trial of the King but it had taken place anyway and the King lay dead; and he’d found his northern homelands being ruled by Harry Vane and Sir Arthur Haselrig in whatever way suited them best. Nothing, it seemed, had recently gone right … and the result was a bout of wholly uncharacteristic lethargy.
He moved his family to rooms in Southwark and promised Elizabeth he’d seek work as a coal-merchant or a soap-boiler. He remained silent when the Rump – as people now derisively called the Parliament – abolished the Lords and the Monarchy and set up a Council of State without any reference to the Agreement of the People. And he rejected the offer of a government position rather than be allied with a mock-power, purged by the force of arms.
Then, just when his family and friends were becoming seriously alarmed, Parliament set up a High Court to try Lords Hamilton, Holland, Norwich and Capel. At first, John merely remarked on its illegality; then he started attending hearings; and eventually he began advising the prisoners to challenge the jurisdiction of the Court.
They refused to do it. John sat gloomily through each day’s proceedings and went home in a state of mental turmoil. Fortunately for the sake of his state of mind, matters started to compound themselves when the common soldiery once more petitioned Parliament for arrears of pay – only to be told that, in future, such petitions must be submitted through the Officers’ Council and that any civilian found breeding discontent in the Army would henceforth be subject to martial law.
‘And thus,’ snapped Free-born John, sitting for the first time in two months before a blank sheet of paper, ‘after these blossoms of hopeful liberty, breaks forth the vilest bondage that ever Englishmen groaned under!’
He picked up his pen and sat for a moment, frowning at the empty page. Then, reaching for the ink, he wrote in large, savage letters, ENGLAND’S NEW CHAINS.
He poured vitriol on the Officers’ Agreement, denounced current legal and religious policy and begged for a new Parliament. And four days later, with Samuel Radford beside him, he presented his work at the bar of the Commons.
Sam immediately had the pamphlet printed in The Moderate – then went off to his wedding, secure in the knowledge that Free-born John was once more his old self. And, while the Army cashiered five troopers for speaking against their officers’ edict, Lords Hamilton, Holland and Capel were beheaded outside Westminster Hall.
Lilburne bided his time. But when it became obvious that no good could be expected of the Rump he took up his pen again and set the paper alight with a sequel to England’s New Chains; and on Sunday March 24th, he read it out to a huge and appreciative crowd in Southwark.
‘The bondage threatened is so great, imminent and apparent that, while we have breath and are not violently restrained, we cannot but cry aloud,’ he began.
; And cry aloud he did – maintaining that the judges were bribed, the press stifled and civil authority crushed beneath the heel of the Army.
Standing in the shelter of her new husband’s arm, Bryony Radford said, ‘It’s true. It’s all true. Why won’t anyone in Parliament listen to him?’
‘Because he’s not saying what they want to hear,’ came the sardonic reply. ‘And he frightens them.’
‘What freedom is there left,’ demanded Lilburne, ‘when honest soldiers are sentenced for presenting letters in justification of their liberty? As for peace – while the Army officers are supreme in the Council of State – what peace can be expected?’ He paused, allowing his voice to gather new power. ‘We do protest against their dissolving the Council of Agitators and moulding the Army to their own designs. We protest against their bringing the Army upon the City – their breaking of the House – and their taking away of men’s lives. And we do demand an Agreement of the People in accordance with our late desires.’
Roaring its enthusiasm, the crowd marched with him to present the petition at Westminster – where the Commons called it ‘false, scandalous, seditious and destructive’ and tried to prevent its circulation by ordering the post to be searched. They were, of course, too late.
While Bryony Radford sat alone by the hearth in Tower Street and Samuel wrote a detailed article for The Moderate, Leveller emissaries were already telling the men of Hertfordshire, Berkshire and Hampshire to resist all unreasonable rates and taxes.
For four days the outcome hung in the balance. Then, early on the morning of the 28th, the Army struck. A hundred or so troopers forced their way into Winchester House to arrest Free-born John while, at the same time, William Walwyn, Richard Overton and Samuel Radford were likewise hauled from their respective homes. All of them were taken before the Council of State, all flatly denied the Council’s power to try them … and all were duly committed to the Tower on suspicion of high treason.
It was not unexpected. Bryony went first to the Tower, then to see Elizabeth Lilburne and finally home to Shoreditch. Facing Jack Morrell with tears on her face and pure rebellion in her eyes, she said, ‘All right. You told me so. But can you still tell me that Sam and John aren’t right?’
For a long time, Jack stared grimly back at her. Then he said curtly, ‘No. I can’t. And if you’ll point me in the right direction, I’ll sign the damned petition myself.’
~ ~ ~
Author’s Note
If the period prior to the first Civil War was complicated, the period after it was convoluted beyond belief. Faction upon faction sprang up – none of them able to agree with any of the others. Presbyterians, Independents, Levellers, Moderates, Engagers, Agitators … the list goes on. I can make no apology for the political complexities contained in this book – they were unavoidable. However, I’ve tried to present them accurately and in as clear a way as I can.
The King’s trial is composed wholly of authentic dialogue – as, to a slightly lesser degree, are the public words of John Lilburne and the various debates and meetings held by the Army at Putney and Windsor. The only liberty I have knowingly taken is allowing the Duke of Hamilton to travel from Uttoxeter to Windsor via Banbury with Gabriel.
As for the bizarre story of the so-called ‘saddle-letter’ which Cromwell intercepted at the Blue Boar in Holborn, this comes from a biography of the Earl of Orrery – who reputedly had the tale from Cromwell himself. Interestingly enough, I have since discovered that there is an Ernest Crofts painting of this very event!
Amongst a host of reference works which have helped me to write this novel I am particularly indebted to the following:-
History of the Great Civil War vols. 3 & 4 by S.R.Gardiner
Free-born John by Pauline Gregg
The Trial of Charles 1 by C.V. Wedgwood
Clarke Manuscripts being the Army Debates [1647-1649]
I would also like to thank the Bodleian Library, Oxford for its help in finding various pamphlets by John Lilburne which, when I originally wrote this book, were not available on the internet.
Stella Riley
November, 2013
The King’s Falcon [Roundheads & Cavaliers #3] will become available in 2014.
To read a brief sample, visit me at [email protected]