Only this last was refused, on the grounds that the Parliament, as was then composed, had not the authority to do so. Monck, in repudiation of those slanders that he was greedy, readily agreed this matter could be carried over. As Monck was preparing to withdraw he was detained by Lenthall.
‘Pray, a moment, sir,’ Lenthall said, assiduously avoiding the use of any title. He then addressed the House. ‘I lay before you the motion that for the quietude of the Nation, George Monck be returned to his high office of Lord-General.’
The cries of ‘Aye! Aye!’ caused Monck to bow first to the Speaker and then the benches.
On this satisfactory conclusion of business, Monck rode directly back to Draper’s Hall where, in his absence, every Regimental commander available within riding distance, and including some nominally under the orders of Charles Fleetwood, were assembled in the hall. Hot from Westminster, he called them to order.
‘I have summoned you to inform you that this afternoon the Parliament has restored me to the post of Lord-General of the Armies of England, Ireland and Scotland. As such, I can assure you all that in recalling the excluded Members my intention has been solely to dissolve the Rump and to set in train the sending out of writs for the calling of a new Parliament. That you may have heard I have today failed to secure you your rights need not disturb you at this time. Within two months these matters will be settled by a new Parliament and I must ask for your further patience until your debentures can be settled properly. This goes for all arrears of pay to you and your men. It is my desire that you make this known without equivocation to your troops. Understand this: it is necessary that such forms be followed lest imputations of over-bearing are laid upon us as soldiers, and that I shall not tolerate, the Army always being subordinate to the civil power.
‘As to other matters, I can assure you that only a government conforming to a proper Commonwealth under a full and free Parliament will be an acceptable settlement. Moreover and in the most particular, whatsoever you may hear to the contrary, anyone disturbing the peace of the Three Nations on behalf of Charles Stuart shall be deemed guilty of High Treason. Likewise any man who seeks to place his ambition above the rule of law as presently given under God’s Providence. These remarks and instructions will be presently conveyed in writing to all garrisons and detachments throughout the Three Nations.
‘Amen.’
This speech was greeted by ‘Amens’ and smiles, most of the officers there being men of Monck’s Army and largely of his own mind. Later that evening, in addition to written copies of his Order of the Day, he sent junior officers of his own Horse to secure the retreat of Colonel Robert Lilburne to his North Yorkshire estate, and the person of John Lambert who was taken to The Tower. A strongly worded order was sent out to all Colonels to maintain tight discipline and guard against subversion and debauchery. With that Monck bid Clarke, Morice, Knight and the rest good night.
Clarke watched him go with a sigh. ‘Will that suffice?’ asked Colonel Knight.
‘I doubt it,’ answered Clarke. ‘Not until Sir Arthur Haselrig follows Johnnie Lambert into protective custody.’
*
It was early, sunrise yet an hour distant, but Monck could not sleep. He stood at the window of his working chamber in The Cockpit and stared down into the grey yard below. The March gale blew some debris, leaves mainly, round and round in the far corner, mirroring the turmoil and indecision in Monck’s mind. A little over a month earlier he had come to London to settle the affairs of the Three Nations and now it seemed to him in that twilit hour that he had not merely achieved nothing, but so confused matters as to make them irredeemable. True, he had at last encompassed a path towards a Parliament better representing the ambitions of the people, but he knew that his attempts to exclude those sober gentlemen of the shires who espoused the cause of the exiled Charles Stuart would be returned in any election and that the assurances that he had given to the Army to this effect would make a liar of him. If he could not see this himself, William Morice had assured him it was so, and Morice was as astute a politician as Monck was a brilliant soldier. Clarges, with his ear to the Cities of London and Westminster rather than the wider country had confirmed what Morice said: the slightest spark of Royalist favour would catch a powder train alight and that would set the whole ablaze. The looming horror of a renewed civil war was the sole matter that kept George Monck at his post.
Only the day before Colonel Okey, a republican fanatic and hand-holder of Haselrig, had led a deputation of like-minded officers to see him. They had flatly refused to accept any government constituted under the authority of ‘a single person,’ by which they meant either Charles Stuart or George Monck. He and Clarke had placated them, given assurances that Monck himself had no ambitions to crown himself, nor that he had any intercourse with the agents of ‘King’ Charles who were said to be in London. Okey and his delegation had withdrawn, suspicious but mollified, if only for the time being. Much could happen in a few days, but that was the trouble. Monck sighed; he felt the burden of his vast responsibilities not because they were heavy, but because they were political.
‘Are you well, sweetheart?’
Startled, he turned and saw Anne at the open doorway. She came in, a shawl about her shoulders over her night-gown, her brown hair, flecked with grey, wispy about her face.
‘Nan, Nan, did I wake you?’
She came to him, he put his arm about her and she her head on his shoulder. ‘You are troubled by matters of state…’ It was a statement, not a question, and he grunted his acknowledgement of it.
‘Such matters have kept us apart too much,’ she added, referring to his quartering in the City.
‘Such matters are unavoidable,’ he murmured, kissing the top of her head.
‘What is to become of us?’ The fear of awful consequences was in her tone and he soothed her.
‘You and the boy will be alright. You have Potheridge and good men like Morice and Clarke about you…’
‘I do not care about that. Not now, not this minute. I care about us.’
Monck was silent for a moment, staring out of the window as the light grew. ‘If I open my heart to you, you must say nothing of it, Anne, nothing. You have been indiscreet and there are those who pick up your unguarded remarks and use them against me, so for the sake of little Kit as much as you and I, what I say now must lie betwixt us.
‘Of course.’ She looked up at him, suddenly as awed as she had been that day in The Tower when she had first encountered Monck and recognised him for a great man. ‘I promise.’
‘I can see only one way out of all this scheming,’ he began tentatively. ‘And that is to admit that you are right…’
‘The King?’
‘The King…’ He paused. ‘I do not want this, but there is no alternative. The King is seen as the only power that can hold these Nations together…’
‘For better or for worse,’ Anne added.
‘Aye, and I fear for worse unless we can bring him to heel for his father could not be trusted and for that reason lost his head along with his crown and Kingdom.’
She remained silent and he looked down at her, expecting some small manifestation of triumph, for such a possibility would, he knew well, kindle all her old avarice. But she stared up at him, her face pale in the dawn, and he read fear in her eyes; she knew what incarceration in The Tower meant, and she knew the consequences of a proven charge of High Treason.
‘If,’ he said quietly, ‘Prince Charles returns to become King, there will be a price to be paid. The surviving Regicides will hang at the very least. Men like Colonel Okey who was but lately here… Lambert, Harrison, Ingoldsby and all the others…’
‘And those like you who have steadfastly opposed the cause of the Royalists? What of them?’
‘If he wishes to avoid further strife, he must abate whatever malice he feels…’
‘He will need advisors, men of honour, men like you George, men like you…’
‘But I
…’
She pulled away from him and confronted him, her arms encircling his ample waist, drawing him towards her and looking up at him. Suddenly changed, she perceived a possible future both for herself and her own ambitions, but also a future which might – just might - answer for reasons of state. ‘Do you make it known, George, that you see no alternative but the return of the King, but then impose such conditions upon Charles Stuart that he durst not disregard them.’
‘Me?’ He was incredulous. ‘You think me capable of such… such intrigue… such influence upon a Stuart?’
‘You, George, are capable of anything. You do not know your own weight. No-one in the whole country, not Fairfax who hides away in Yorkshire, not Haselrig who is extreme, not Lambert who is in The Tower where he belongs, not Fleetwood who has been but a name for too long, not… not…’
He smiled as she ran out of names. ‘You forget those in Ireland, the Earls of Glencairn and Middleton, even Ewan Cameron of Lochiel, Archibald Cameron of Argyll…’
‘Pah!’ she said, ‘they are nothing.’
He considered her proposition for some moments. ‘I must strengthen my hold on the Army,’ he said after a few moments rumination. ‘Those elements of it beyond my own direct command…’
‘Yes, yes. Do that, George. Bind the Army to yourself. Purge it and bind it close. You presently hold the title and authority of Lord-General, the men know you, trust you…’
He pushed her gently aside, catching the fire of her enthusiasm. It was as though scales had dropped from his eyes for all that it meant breaking his assurances to Okey and his crew. Still, that revelation was yet some time away, and in the meanwhile he must move against those whose ambitions held to what they called ‘the good old cause’ of English republicanism. That it was a deceptive misnomer was a matter for cleverer minds than his to argue over. He knew it spoke for a despotism perhaps worse than a Stuart King who might be persuaded to take some advice from the man who had made clear his path.
Well, well, so be it. Monck drew in his breath then looked at his wife. Backed against the window, Anne saw the change her words had wrought in her husband. She remained fearful of the future, but less of her husband’s vacillating, for she had an immense faith in both his star and his common sense.
‘Go, get thee dressed, Nan. I have work to do.’
It was as if that dawn conversation between husband and wife somehow changed things, though in truth what transpired was no more than an unravelling of consequences as events unrolled and parties manoeuvred, their intentions surfacing. While between the dissolution of the Rump and the calling of the new Parliament, Monck and the Council of State held together an interim government, matters remained as uncertain as ever. Letters came from Yorkshire warning Monck to be on his guard against assassination, word having reached the Fairfaxes that there were those who believed Monck intended to seize the Crown for himself. But letters came too from the troops occupying outlying towns, pledging their loyalty to the Lord-General, even though they crossed gallopers carrying orders for certain senior officers of known views to be removed, their commissions cancelled and their posts filled by others. In this Mr Speaker Lenthall proved accommodating.
It was now, on the eve of the sending out of the writs for the recalling of the Parliament, that Monck remembered another matter in which he fully asserted his near-regal powers. On a dark afternoon in March, he called for an escort and rode to The Tower.
‘I know thee, sir.’ The old turnkey held the lantern to Monck’s deeply lined face.
‘And I know thee, fellow. Now stand aside and conduct me to Bishop Wren.’
The gaoler turned without another word and led Monck to St Thomas’s Tower. When admitted to the divine’s presence, Monck made a bow.
‘General Monck!’ Wren rose from his table, his arms out-stretched. He had been writing, a quill and ink-well sat on his desk alongside a prayer-book and sheaves of paper. His cell was lined with book shelves which, with a five-branched candelabra, gave the chamber an almost homely air. ‘Why, what a pleasure. Pray, do sit down, sir. May I offer you some wine?’
‘Thank you, no, My Lord Bishop. I came to tell you that on my authority you are to be released.’
‘Released?’ The notion seemed to astonish Wren and he seemed flummoxed, distracted even, turning aside and motioning Monck to his desk. ‘I recall you wrote a book while you were here. I have done the same. Well, not a book, but I have undertaken the revision of the Book of Common Prayer.’
Monck stared down at the closely written sheets of paper, reading the words: It is meet, right and our bounden duty to give thanks to God…
Even as he cast his eyes over Wren’s careful hand, a tear plopped on the page and the words ‘bounden duty’ grew blurred and indistinct. Monck placed his hand upon Wren’s shaking shoulder as the man sniffed and incredulously repeated the single word: ‘Released?’
‘I shall leave word for it, along with your passport. You may take your time. I can provide lodgings for you here in London if you wish.’
Wren nodded, getting hold of himself. ‘That would be most kind, General Monck… Forgive me this unmanly… It has been a long time and I appreciate the kindness, particularly from a man with Presbyterian leanings.’
Monck shrugged. ‘They do not dispose me to see a man rot in prison.’
‘Of course.’ Wren smiled then added: ‘though what I shall do upon my release, I know not, for bishops are out of countenance, I understand. It has been over-long since I…’ He paused, then changed tack, making mention of Monck’s own time incarcerated in the neighbouring cell. ‘Is it true that you intend the return of the King? You shall do as you said you would, all those unhappy years ago. I knew you would.’
‘Then you knew more than I did, My Lord Bishop,’ Monck’s tone was kind but brusque. ‘I assure you that there is no deep and secret intention to do so. Circumstances and the peace and welfare of the people have ever been mine only consideration. If we are to avoid a further descent into civil strife and the Parliament wills it, the King’s return may be accomplished, but such is mere conjecture, be assured, particularly after your release. I would not have your tongue wagging before the event, nor afterwards if it should come to pass. And that is by no means certain.’
‘I comprehend the necessity for discretion, sir.’
‘The absolute necessity, My Lord Bishop. The Parliamentary writs go out tomorrow…’
‘Matters are so far advanced?’ Wren brightened.
‘Matters are at the cross-roads. I myself stand at the cross-roads and the shadow of the gibbet stands there too alongside me – and you too, make no mistake about that. No other man in London or elsewhere for that matter has heard such a notion from me. Nor my wife neither, so you see the trust I place in you.’
‘I marvel at it, sir.’
‘I marvel at it, too, but matters cannot go on as they are.’ Monck’s tone was abstracted and Wren sensed the need of the confessional, the confidant.
‘Wherefore with such mighty preoccupation came thee here today to think of me?’
Monck looked up. ‘What? Why I recalled your incarceration and the injustice of it. I have been in London some weeks and had forgot it… you. I reproached myself.’
Wren was laughing now, the full impact of his liberty suddenly revealed. He felt the burden of his durance fall away, all owing to the stolid fellow beside him.
‘I shall not betray you, General Monck, nor reproach you if matters do not fall out according to my desire. I shall die with the satisfaction of knowing that you have done your part and it was for the best.’
‘Do you find your liberty and then pray for their happy conclusion when ambiguity may be cast off like the lizard’s tail,’ Monck said, making to leave Wren.
‘I shall pray for that moment and do so with a thankful heart, General Monck, and my prayers shall go with thee, for I know well what you have accomplished already.’
‘Pish.’ Monck knocked for his release,
adding, ‘this door shall not be locked tonight. You may make such arrangements as you wish.’
*
By mid-March, the writs had gone out and, in consequence, the new Parliament was called to assemble on the 27th April. As Monck returned to The Cockpit from a meeting of the Council of State a day after the dispatch of the writs, Morice asked for a private word.
‘What is it?’ Monck asked when they were alone. ‘Has Wren been to see you?’
‘Wren?’ Morice frowned. ‘You mean the Laudian Bishop that was in The Tower?’
‘The same, yes.’
‘No, no, ’tis not that,’
‘What then?’
Morice stared uncertainly at Monck who could see him swallow and noticed the pallor of his skin. This was not typical of the man Monck knew; Morice was either under duress, or had something to say of which he was in fear.
‘Charles Stuart?’ asked Monck, watching the relief bring blood back into Morice’s features. The man’s hands shook too, so that Monck motioned him to a seat and poured him a glass of wine. Morice trembled terribly until he had swallowed a mouthful.
‘I may speak of it without fear?’ he asked in a low voice.
‘You may speak of him without fear, William. You are among those I trust most.’
‘I have a message, sir.’
‘Go on.’
‘Sir John Grenville seeks a meeting with you.’
‘Cousin John, eh? He of the Sealed Knot, huh! He sent my brother Nicholas to Scotland to treat on the matter some months ago.’
‘You spurned him, then…’
‘Should I not spurn him now?’
‘I think not, sir. Matters are changed, are they not?’
An unpleasant suspicion crossed Monck’s mind. Had Anne blabbed? In his absence, she and Morice had run Potheridge between them; they knew each other well. Was it possible that her ambition had over-ridden her promise? Surely to God not.
‘How so, touching me, William, that you make so bold as to mention the matter so freely?’
Sword of State: The Remarkable Story of George Monck Page 46