She shivers in her thin underlinens. There is a clattering on the stairs. She grabs the nearest thing – the old shirt Sam was wearing. It is stiff with dried blood, but she pulls it over her head. They will take if for a nightshirt. Perhaps it will fit Will. As she pulls it down over her head, she smells Sam – earthy and familiar. Could she smell him when they shared a womb, she wonders?
Ned bursts into the room, just behind Roberts. And there, in front of him, in an oversized, bloodstained shirt, is Henrietta. She looks like the girl he remembers – fierce and proud.
She starts to speak, hands raised, looking not at Ned but at the boy beside him, who is shouting. Shouting words that Ned does not catch. But then there is a flash, which he doesn’t understand, and the sound of a shot. And suddenly she is falling, falling, and the fresh blood spreads fast on her brother’s shirt.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
May 1649
THERE ARE WOMEN EVERYWHERE. BAREFOOT WOMEN WITH mud grimed into the cracks of their heels. Tattered women with patched-up cloaks that billow like sails. They are thin, these women. They have sharp, angled cheekbones and desperate faces. They huddle in groups; walk abreast; sit crying in corners.
To Ned, used to being surrounded by men, it is like moving though a shadow world. They pull at his coat, jeer at him as he passes. He is frightened, he finds. Sea-green ribbons flutter from their clothes, the mark of the radicals. A tumble of grey and misery and green. Their desperation sticks to him like treacle. He wades through them, clutching his secret dispatches with painfully tight fingers.
They want food for their children. They want their husbands and sons released from the army, paid and sent home. They want the release from prison of the Leveller martyrs, men who raise the possibility of a new world and a new order. Men who say the unsayable: that equality before God is possible, and desirable. Most of all, they want to be heard. They have marched on Parliament before, these women, and been sent home with jeers and taunts by the MPs. Go home to the dishes. Send your husbands. Rightly, thinks Ned, as he pushes his way through. Women have no place in public life. It is hard enough, in these times, for men to grapple with the future.
They shout slogans and jostle at him. He feels himself caught by their passion. He finds himself next to a pretty young woman. She looks prosperous, as if she is strolling along to the river for a picnic. She sees Ned looking at her and stares back as she opens her mouth wide to shout and call. Something about arbitrary power. The rule of law trampled. He can see her pink tongue and the blackness at the back of her throat.
What a time he has picked to arrive at Westminster. He should have visited Lucy first, cooed over her growing belly. She would never march with these women. Never expose herself in this way to censure and ridicule. Henrietta, however… The thought brings him to a sudden halt. His heart beats wildly, loudly, muffling the sound of the women’s cries. Women behind him bump into him as he stands there, making him stumble.
He ducks sideways into an alleyway, looking for a way round the demonstration, and trips over something. He looks down to see the body of a child. A small boy, stripped naked. His stomach is bulging; his face is peaceful. If Ned had not seen starving children in Bristol, he would have missed the signs. The sharp-ridged ribs above the swollen belly. The hollowed-out cheeks and the dark-rimmed eyes.
Ned feels the nausea rising. Last night’s pie sits like a reproach on his stomach. It cost a small fortune. The price of food has soared. Famine grips a land already soaked in blood. Is this the taste of hell before we shape His kingdom?
Ned squats on his heels beside the body of the dead boy. He feels sweat breaking out on his forehead and prickling at his armpits. He tries to force down the boy’s eyelids with a shaking hand, but they will not close. The boy is beginning to turn, lying here amid the rubbish. Jesus, keep us. Jesus, keep me.
In his other hand is the petition, thrust at him by one of the women. He smooths out the creases in the paper. He reads:
Since we are assured of our creation in the image of God, and of an interest in Christ equal unto men, as also of a proportionable share in the freedoms of this Commonwealth, we cannot but wonder and grieve that we should appear so despicable in your eyes as to be thought unworthy to petition or represent grievances to this honourable House.
Lord, grant them wisdom, thinks Ned. What have we unleashed if women can write these words to Parliament? Equal unto men, the strumpets. Where will it end?
He pushes himself upright, tapping his fingers on the bag carrying the dispatches, abstractedly drumming out a marching tune on the dark leather. He must avoid the women or push his way through. He must deliver his letters. Yet he stands still. His legs are moulded to the earth, trapping him in this alleyway with a dead boy and an urgent, undelivered message.
His regiment is in Bristol. The Levellers are deep in its rank and file. Some of the officers are close to mutiny. They talk of arrears of pay and abuses by the army grandees. They rage at the raising of troops to conquer Ireland. They spit at the Council of State, the body set up by the Rump Parliament to govern in the absence of the king. It fits awkwardly in the king-shaped hole, like a piece of ill-made puzzle jammed in arbitrarily.
Ned must get his message through. He must let the grandees know how it stands in Bristol. Who is safe, and who is suspect. He thinks of the pamphlet he carries, which circulates in his regiment. He feels it banging against his thigh, feels the heat of it through the leather. Not the king’s fault, but ours. That is what it says. Our fault. My fault.
He knows it by heart, has pored over it by candlelight, recited it to the clip-clop rhythm of his walking horse.
He whispers the words to the dead boy: ‘Oh! The ocean of blood we are guilty of. Oh! The intolerable oppression we have laid upon our brethren of England. Oh! How these deadly sins of ours do torment out consciences.’
The boy is silent. His open eyes are a reproach. They stare sightlessly at the evening sky.
Ned whispers it again. ‘Do you think he is right, boy? The one who wrote the pamphlet? Are we guilty? Am I guilty?’
The boy does not answer, and Ned finds himself becoming angry. He shakes the boy. He hears the crack of ribs and drops the body down again into the filth. He weeps then, tears dripping down onto the boy’s greying skin.
‘Ned.’
Will’s voice is flat. It tells Ned nothing. He looks down to see Blackberry twisting his arms round his father’s legs in the doorway.
‘Un-le Neh,’ says Blackberry, reaching out two chubby arms, demanding to be lifted.
Ned leans down and picks him up, suddenly overwhelmed by the smell of him. He feels his knees quiver. There is a possibility of fainting, and he leans against the wall, Blackberry in his arms.
‘Can I come in, Will?’
Will looks at him with an impassive face. He says nothing, but walks back into the room, leaving the door open. Ned carries Blackberry through. Standing in the corner with wide, frightened eyes is Will’s sister. Patience, is it?
She looks terrified. Ned almost checks behind him to see who it is that she is afraid of. He stops himself.
‘Patience,’ says Will, ‘could you take Blackberry?’
She nods and comes forward to take the boy. She avoids Ned’s eyes with a heavy effort. Only when she has closed the door behind her does Will speak.
‘What are you doing here, Ned?’
‘I wanted to see you. I am here for two days. Then leaving for Bristol. I have volunteered to fight in Ireland, under Cromwell. We will embark soon. I am not sure for how long.’
‘Want to kill some papists now, Ned? Not enough blood spilled here for you?’
Ned feels an angry retort spitting on his tongue. He has become adept, he thinks, at controlling his thoughts and his actions. He breathes. ‘It is true,’ he says, trying to keep his voice low and calm, ‘that I want to be in action again.’
‘Why?’
He shrugs. ‘It is my job.’
That is not it.
Not it at all. How can he say it to Will? He wants clarity again. He wants certainty. He wants to feel God’s breath on his cheek as the papists flee His wrath. He wants orders. A chain of command. He wants the roar and thunder of battle to push his thoughts from his head, like air from a pig’s bladder. He breathes in.
‘And how are you, Will?’ He wants to reach across and touch his friend’s shoulder. He clasps his hands behind his back.
Will shrugs. ‘I am alive. Not living, perhaps. Breathing. I have Blackberry. Otherwise, I am not sure I would bother. Breathing, I mean. Last night, Ned, there was a shower of meteors. Did you know that? And I looked out of the window, and I felt… nothing. Complete and total nothing.’
‘It will pass.’
‘Will it? Since we buried her, Ned, there is only one emotion that I feel with any depth. Hate. Lord knows how I hate.’
‘Will, I…’
Will holds a hand up imperiously. ‘Hate, Ned. I have been scoured clean of love. Just a pinprick left for my son. Nothing else. Do you want to know who I hate, Ned?’
Ned nods, mutely.
‘The dead king. The living queen. The Members of Parliament. The women who walked past my window moaning about empty bellies. The judges. Hattie, who has done nothing wrong, but who cries and cries and makes me envy her tears. Sam, for being here and putting her in danger. Then writing a jolly fucking letter from Prince Rupert’s hind tit about his daring escape. He should be getting my letter back about now, Ned, so I suspect he’ll be a bit less fucking jolly.’
Will walks over to the table, where a flask of wine is sitting. It is not yet noon, but he pours out two generous measures. He hands one to Ned, who drinks deeply, feeling the burn in his throat. He is not used to strong drinking any more. He drinks again, watching Will above the rim, throwing off his measure.
‘I hate the boy who shot her. I hate you, of course, Ned. That goes without saying.’ He drops into a courtly bow. Ned twists his glass in his hands.
‘I hate myself the most, I think, Ned. There was I, playing at lawyers, while she was getting shot. While she was trying to protect the ones she loved. You too, of course. Not just Sam. Protect you from yourself.’
Ned closes his eyes. He has become proficient at blocking out the image of her puzzled face as she fell. The hand she put out to him, stained with blood. The film already forming on her eyes.
‘She is with Jesus now,’ says Ned gently.
‘Damn your eyes, Ned. Damn you to Hell.’
‘Will, I…’
‘With Jesus. And you know that how, Ned? Hasn’t half this blood been shed because you and the other lot were fighting over who gets to go to heaven? Jesus, Ned.’ Will laughs; a strange, mirthless thing.
‘It’s almost funny. If your father was right and you were wrong, there must be a long queue for judgement. The sheer numbers you lot have sent to be judged. And if you were right and he was wrong, my Henrietta could be in hell right now. Burning.’
‘No. No. She is elect.’
‘Funny how you bastards always think you know who is elect and who is damned. You don’t think He judges, but you do it all the time.’
Ned drains his drink. ‘I should go,’ he says. It is unbearable to see Will like this. Gentle, clever Will.
They walk towards the door. ‘Tell me this, Ned,’ says Will. ‘Do you feel guilt for her death?’
Ned pauses on the threshold. He hears someone screaming in the still air. His head feels tight, as if a headache is coming on. ‘I did not pull the trigger,’ he says at last.
Will smiles, and its bleakness twists Ned’s stomach.
‘Goodbye, Ned,’ he says, slamming the door with a thud that echoes.
Ned puts his hand on his sword hilt as he walks away, running his thumb over its edges. He tries not to think about Henrietta. He tries not to think about Sam. He will leave London behind soon enough. He will feel the salt spray on his face and know that there is a sea between him and the politicking. The great earthquake of the king’s death has levelled the land. He had thought that it would be clearer, what came next. He had thought that, with the king gone, a new Jerusalem would rise. It turns out that earthquakes leave behind rubble and sewage and frightened, bickering men.
He tries not to think about Henrietta. He tries not to remember her white, puzzled face as she fell.
It will be good to be in battle again, to draw this sword in earnest. It will be good to have orders that are clear, precise. Dig this trench. Set this watch. Use this password. It will be good to do His work. To hear God’s pure voice calling in the darkness.
HISTORICAL NOTE
A few years ago, I was living on Fetter Lane. It is a typical central London street – a jumble of hideous concrete buildings, glass-fronted offices, a newsagent, a mellow wood-panelled pub and a dodgy boozer for the Friday night bingers.
It was a magical place to live. At weekends, the old square mile of London and a few streets beyond empty out. The offices are shuttered; the pubs are hushed. The streets are left to a handful of bemused tourists, a few lucky residents and sightless, grey statues. The City is quiet, and you can hear the echoes of London’s deep layers of history.
Idly researching my street one day, I came across the story of Waller’s Plot. The two merchants involved, Richard Challoner and Nathaniel Tompkins, were hanged outside their front doors – one on Fetter Lane. The aims of the plot are murky, but I have tried to be true to what facts there are. I have borrowed the names of the merchants and invented their characters and families. Edmund Waller’s character I have inferred, rightly or wrongly, from his poetry.
I have long been fascinated by the English Civil War, and perplexed by its absence from our national story. French and American souls are informed by their revolutions; we are more diffident about ours. Perhaps the Restoration made all the ructions and schisms seem like a macabre dream. Perhaps the religious zeal that drove the political radicals is hard to tolerate in a more secular age.
But the fact remains that the ferment of ideas generated in those twenty years informed all the West’s later movements for liberty and the rights of man. The very early seeds of feminism are evident in women’s writing during the period, albeit tinged with godliness. The British instigated an extraordinary attempt to define and claim freedom in an era of hitherto unchallenged monarchy.
It was costly. In Going to the Wars, Charles Carlton estimates that 190,000 people died in England and Wales alone – both directly on the battlefields and as a result of the disease and hunger which follow armies. This from a population of five million. It was unprecedentedly bloody and brutal, with atrocities on both sides. Our neat caricatures of Roundheads and Cavaliers distort a much more interesting, complex reality.
For those who would like to read further, the best recent introductions to the era I have read include: The English Civil War by Diane Purkiss; God’s Fury, England’s Fire by Michael Braddick; The English Civil Wars by Blair Worden; Civil War by Trevor Royle. John Adamson’s The Noble Revolt is a radical reinterpretation of the causes of the war.
Other books I found invaluable include: Birth, Marriage & Death and Dangerous Talk, both by David Cressy; The Tyrannicide Brief by Geoffrey Robertson; The Verneys by Adrian Tinniswood; A Royal Passion by Katie Whittaker; The Ends of Life by Keith Thomas; Samuel Pepys by Clare Tomalin; Charles 1 by Richard Cust; Black Tom by Andrew Hopper; The Impact of the Civil War on the Economy of London by Ben Coates; Puritan London by Tai Liu; Merchants and Revolution by Robert Bremner; Women all on Fire by Allison Plowden; London and the Civil War by Stephen Porter. The King’s Smuggler by John Fox is a fascinating book on Jane Whorwood, a secret agent for Charles 1.
On the military side, these books were very useful: A Military History of the English Civil War by Malcolm Wanklyn and Frank Jones; Naseby by Glenn Foard; The Battle for London by Stephen Porter and Simon Marsh; Cromwell’s War Machine by Keith Roberts; Prince Rupert by Frank Kitson; Going to the Wars by Charles Carlton; War in England by Bar
bara Donagan. All mistakes and misinterpretations are mine alone.
This is a very limited bibliography. As well as numerous secondary sources, it excludes countless letters, eyewitness accounts and diaries. I have been reading about the English Civil War ever since I studied it for A level, when I was inspired by a wonderful teacher – Annabel Smith. A second brilliant history teacher and Civil War expert, Serrie Meakins, kindly read the work early to check for errors, and found a couple! Thank you to both of you – history needs its inspirational teachers.
Other huge debts of gratitude are owed to Andrew Gordon, my agent. Without his advice and support, this book would still be mouldering, half-written, in the ‘if only’ pile. Thanks too to my editors at Corvus, Maddie West and Anna Hogarty, for all their enthusiasm and hand-holding.
I have been cajoled and encouraged to publication by various friends and colleagues – in rough chronological order: Surmaya Talyarkhan, Clare Moore, Jeanette Burn, Megan Skipper, Annabelle Honess Roe, Anne Ashworth, Gráinne Gilmore, Robert Cole, Anne Spackman, James Harding, Bill and Sandra West. Thank you to all of you for the wine, ego-stroking, babysitting and professional breaks that contributed, sometimes indirectly, to the writing of this book.
Thanks to the old block I’m a chip off – my dad, Bob Senior. My beloved sisters, Glencora and Elishna, deserve a special mention in a book about sibling bonds and tensions – I am almost sure we would have been on the same side! Hector, my nephew, thank you for being a fellow history buff. Lara and Romilly, my daughters, I love you to the stars and back.
Thank you to Lisa, my mother, for everything; and for teaching me how to read.
Thank you to Colin for everything else; and for teaching me how to write about love.
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