by Simon Parke
‘You say I should vacate my seat in the House and stop being an honourable member for Huntingdon?’ asked Cromwell.
‘What authority lies in that dung pit now?’ said Joyce. ‘God spoke at Marston Moor and Naseby. God never spoke at Whitehall.’
It was good to hear soldiers’ talk again.
‘Cornet Joyce, you speak with spirit.’ He spoke with impertinence as well, mind you. ‘But we must beware of dismantling parliament too hastily; for if that authority falls to nothing, then nothing can follow but confusion.’
‘But confusion is what we have, sir. We are there already, and these parliamentary men, they do not understand sacrifice – sir.’ That was true. ‘Or what must be done for good to prevail.’
‘And what must be done?’ asked Cromwell. This conversation was like speaking with himself.
‘These men, sir, who sit in their rows and make their votes – they avert their eyes now from the rough justice of war.’ This was the talk of the army camp. ‘They look away from the harsh transactions of requisitioned supplies, from the spirit of untutored men seeking redress – un-monied souls with no status. They do not want to hear of such things or know of such things, now their precious war is won! Can I speak plainly, sir?’
‘You can.’
‘This war and this army embarrass them! That’s what we do; we embarrass them! They want only their Presbyterian prayer book and the king back on the throne!’
Cromwell felt the stirrings of a time lost, when battle lines had been more clearly drawn. And he felt the change in his army, no longer that rough but obedient unit, drilled and unquestioning. The child had grown up and now thought for itself – however wild their thoughts might be. Though nothing here was new. He’d known this truth a while, and said it to Fairfax: ‘Never were the spirits of good men more embittered than now.’
Joyce leaned forward. ‘How can men such as these – these soft parliamentary men – bring liberty to this nation? They know only cowardly talk and secret negotiation with the author of our woes. They press for a uniform religion, imposed like a blacksmith’s clamp on every human soul.’
Cromwell agreed with each word, but feared their pace. There must be unity in this matter. They must all move as one, with people courted and cajoled into compliance.
‘Have what you will, Cornet – but what you have by force, I look upon as nothing.’
‘Are we not the Lord’s army victorious by force?’
‘We are . . . but the Lord’s army now awaiting fresh providence.’
‘I have a thousand horse, Lieutenant-General—’
‘Mr Cromwell, please. I no longer fight.’
‘And almost two regiments.’
‘That is a good crowd.’
‘And with those horse and regiments, I might surprise Colonel Graves and his hundred men at Holdenby.’
‘You plan an attack on one of our own?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Then what?’
‘This is no attack. I will merely propose to the colonel a different keeping for the king.’
‘A different keeping?’
‘A safer keeping.’
‘And you will propose that with your soldiers lined up behind you.’
‘You know the value of an army, sir,’ said Joyce.
Cromwell contemplated anger; it came to the surface on occasion, as did his tears.
‘A cornet to humiliate a colonel?’ he asked.
‘I desire to humiliate no one, sir. I am quite content to serve under another in this project, one of higher rank.’ Cromwell nodded. ‘My only desire is to make the king more secure.’
‘You will fit better locks?’
‘They say Colonel Graves couldn’t secure a donkey that is lame.’
‘That is the soldiers’ view?’
‘It is well known.’ Cromwell smiled . . . but the cornet was concerned. ‘There are those who would have the king free, Mr Cromwell. When many good men have died to make him captive.’
Joyce had lost his brother and uncle at the battle of Marston Moor. Terrible things had been done in the war, awful murder – an uncivil civil war, fracturing families and nation, while the king played bowls and read romances in Oxford.
‘You speak plainly,’ said Cromwell.
‘We fought a war that we might, sir; speak plainly and believe plainly.’
Had he said too much? But what else could he say? The lieutenant-general appeared indecisive, as if uncertain of the way – when he’d always been sure in battle. Joyce had a plan that demanded immediate enactment. It was simple, necessary and pressing, yet the response in this parlour was slow and unformed, like drifting fog.
*
Charles had spoken with Colonel Graves about his desire to explore the landscape of Northamptonshire on foot.
‘Holdenby is a fine house, Colonel Graves.’
‘I’m glad your majesty finds it so.’
‘I knew it as a boy, of course, as a prince, and have many happy memories of this place. Better times than now . . . much better times.’
‘Indeed, sire.’
‘Such grand parties my father had here – festivities quite envied by the French!’
The king did go on about the parties, but Colonel Graves nodded with deference, for his Presbyterian childhood in King’s Norton had known nothing of such luxuriance. And while one should not applaud the lavish and the lewd, excess did encourage a certain respect.
‘And I wish now to explore the estate,’ said Charles, as if the parties demanded it.
Graves nodded once again. He could hardly say no to such an innocent and natural request from the king.
‘And a little walking might do my physic some good,’ added Charles, noting the colonel’s acceptance of the scheme.
‘I commend your majesty on such wise self-regard,’ said Graves. ‘Though you will understand if I send some soldiers with you – to ensure only that you do not get lost, sire. You would not be the first in these parts.’
‘Lost – or escape, Colonel?’ He looked hard at Graves. ‘I am saddened by your poor trust; that you imagine I might escape this brief custody, which you manage with such courtesy.’
‘I imagined no such thing, your majesty!’ Though he had imagined this, and felt a little restraint might be wise. He did not wish to lose the king for parliament, for he was their best – and only – card. They were friends, the king and parliament, Charles assured them of this . . . but they still needed it in writing.
‘Then I will enjoy the company!’ said Charles.
And shortly after, the king set out to explore the land around Holdenby, accompanied by two young guards who were much in awe of their companion, being carpenters by trade and not given to walking with kings.
‘Have you ever walked with a king before?’ asked Charles as they climbed a hill, leaving Holdenby behind.
‘I have not, your majesty, it is an honour,’ one of the guards replied.
‘It is an honour, yes – and one I cheerfully grant you.’ They walked on. ‘You shall tell your parents of it, no doubt,’ continued Charles. ‘You walked today with the king!’
‘I shall tell my mother, sir – my father was killed at—’
‘I have sons of my own, you know, and you are like them – in some ways.’ The young men blushed. ‘I miss them greatly, of course, and when you are fathers you will understand. Still, we shall be together again soon, with the help of my dear friends in parliament.’
‘I hope that very much, sire.’
They walked further still, along a little-travelled track over a carpet of early summer daisies, and then Charles spoke again.
‘I must now let you return to Holdenby, my children, while I walk on a little, alone.’
‘Sire?’
‘I need solitude; his majesty desire
s to be alone and will make his own way back shortly.’
He indicated that they should now turn around, this instant, without discussion, and leave him – though they hesitated.
‘It is the king’s command, soldiers. A command the wise heed.’
‘Yes, your majesty.’
They did not know what to do as they stood amid the cowslips, but he was the king and God’s anointed . . . and so they obeyed. They turned round and walked back to Holdenby, debating among themselves what Colonel Graves would say, while the king carried on down the track, glancing back only to ensure his privacy. It was good to be free, simpler than he’d expected. Jane had provided him with a local map, brought on her last visit – though quite where he was now he couldn’t be sure. He should have asked the young soldiers before they left, but they were a distance now.
Charles, alone with the breeze and a bee, looked around for assistance.
*
Perhaps they were right, those Leveller fellows. This is what Cornet Joyce now considered beneath the low ceilings of Drury Lane, glad of the steady fire.
Many in the army said Cromwell was the present difficulty: a hero in war, but a disappointment in peace. It was common talk in the regiments that the army leadership had become too grand for their own leather boots. They said the search for power had gone to their heads, had severed their bonds with the common soldier, when it was the soldiers who’d got them here . . . and having come this far, they would not now be denied.
‘You seek my authority in this matter, Mr Joyce?’ said Cromwell.
Joyce looked at him through the pipe smoke. He had not seen his commander in this manner – a man grown weary, restless and perhaps caged in this small, damp dwelling, where his wife cleaned and altered constantly. She took his plate as soon as he was done with his bread. And Cromwell seemed to read his mind.
‘You notice the damp, Joyce?’
‘There is something in the air, perhaps, sir.’
This was not a conversation they’d shared on the battlefield.
‘My wife has tried a house perfume to make the air better,’ said Cromwell and Joyce nodded. ‘The place was left too long before our arrival, you see. I’m not sure about the perfume,’ he said, lowering his voice. ‘I tell her we just need the chimneys smoked and heated again . . . and the rooms aired. Though whether London air is the best—’
‘About your authority—’
‘Yes.’
‘I believe your orders would add weight and legitimacy to my business, sir,’ he said.
‘And your business is to remove the king from his Presbyterian gaolers and secure him in some manner for the army.’
‘It is, sir.’
‘And I commend you in your work, Cornet Joyce, whatever it may be.’ Joyce wondered what he meant. ‘You appear to have God’s wind in your sails,’ he continued, after sipping a little more sherry, as if toasting the scheme. ‘A sure sign of the providential hand.’
He got up as he spoke, and walked towards the door.
‘So I must detain you no longer. You have a long journey ahead and much to do. I understand you must act with speed, if you are to proceed as described. Give my best to Colonel Graves, should you meet. Solid soldier, Graves, Regiment of Horse, I believe.’
Joyce was standing in Drury Lane with his own horse, unable to remember how he’d got there, and unsure as to what Cromwell had meant. Did he commend Joyce in his endeavours, or command him? Did he now proceed with Cromwell’s authority or not? No matter, he would ride north to Holdenby House, to ensure the king was securely held.
This was the Lord’s work – but Joyce would help, by God!
*
The track, promising at first, had narrowed and become a path overgrown with forget-me-not and weed. Charles stumbled and then stopped, gazing at the map, which helped little if you did not know where you were; Holdenby was a large estate, he remembered his father saying. Ahead, he saw a cart proceeding slowly, which suggested a road – perhaps the road to London, or Oxford, where he had safe houses. Jane would have things ready for him . . . and his splice hardened a little at the thought of her.
He struggled through a hedge, climbed over a wall and found himself, after a little toil, on the road he sought – surely it was so? He felt as tired and dusty as the summer, his skin a garment of sweat, but wiping his eyes he saw a woman on a horse, and was now waving her down. He would use his charm; the people had always loved him.
‘I seek the best path to London, good lady,’ he said. He had no fear of recognition, having tied his thick hair back in a tail.
‘Your majesty!’ she exclaimed. ‘Are you lost?’
‘I appear to be,’ said Charles, looking up to the surprised rider, a most attractive lady in her bonnet. ‘I seek the road south; and you must not speak of this meeting, never. Do you understand?’
‘You seek the road south?’
‘I do, good lady, but it is not something you must speak of.’
‘But that is away from Holdenby.’
‘I flee evil men.’
‘Which evil men?’
‘The worst of sorts.’
‘But my husband said nothing of this.’
‘Your husband, madam?’
‘Colonel Graves, your devoted and admiring servant.’
‘Colonel Graves is your husband?’
‘He rides with me, but a little way behind. Here he is now!’
The colonel appeared over the brow of the hill and rode up alongside the country conversation.
‘Your majesty, I had not expected to see you here, regaling my wife with pleasantries.’
‘A little lost,’ said Charles.
‘As is your escort,’ said Graves and the king shrugged. ‘And despite the fresh map you carry?’ The king had neglected to return it to its pouch. ‘So well equipped for the journey home, your majesty.’
*
With the Thames seagulls arguing overhead, Jane stopped in the street and felt ill. A man was scolding his children, ill-language flowing from his mouth, and he reminded her of Brome – not his face but his manner; she couldn’t escape her husband.
And then she was walking again and thinking again that if she’d been a poor mother, Brome had been a monstrous father. A good father might have made her a good mother, as one candle lights another. Had Brome shown even a little goodness to her, then perhaps her disposition would have altered, with more tender habits to the fore, more kindness in the kitchen, more joining in bed? Perhaps then she would have liked her son instead of being repulsed. It didn’t help that the little fellow shared his father’s name – a name passed on like the plague. It had been hard to separate the two sometimes.
But what excuse for her daughter Diana? Why had she not cared for her? Perhaps, quite simply, she was not a motherly woman. Such people must exist; it was no crime. And anyway, there was always her grandmother and servants to play the parent at home. If one must live with one’s mother-in-law – never a choice – at least let them serve you! And this is what she told herself again and again as she rode the wet lanes of England in the king’s cause. Especially when war broke out, that terrible war, when the king had replaced all others in her affections . . . for wasn’t this every patriot’s duty?
She had left her children for Charles, this was her reasoning. And she was good at her work, there was no one better. With his queen in exile, how necessary she became in so many ways, and she did it all for his majesty: raised money, smuggled gold, handled intelligence, linked loyalists. She was a go-between, a carrier of secret ciphers, coded messages – ‘a lady worthy of extended notice’, as one opponent declared, and much to her delight, for Brome could manage no such words.
To support her dear king, she’d created a network of contacts extending from London to Edinburgh, from Grimsby to Cardiff, covertly relaying news among the ro
yalist supporters, via laundresses, merchants, latrine emptiers . . . there was no one she wouldn’t use. For good reasons, those who emptied latrines were rarely stopped and never searched.
But her real work began when the greedy Scots, for a Judas fee, sold the king into English hands in February 1647, after which he was held at Holdenby. And there he remained, ‘a bird in a gilded cage, a golden ball thrown between parliament and the army’. The king needed friends, and would find one in her. Contact became daily at Holdenby, with compliant guards and the kind Colonel Graves.
And escape would be easy; she had left him a map on her last visit . . .
*
‘It is the story of a country boy who walked to London and there found fame and fortune,’ wrote William Lilly in his diary. ‘And it is my story! The story of a Leicestershire lad who – with his father languishing in the debtors’ gaol – took his penniless self to the capital, worked hard, married well . . . and discovered the stars.’
William enjoyed reviewing his life – a life lived beneath the kind guidance of the heavens. He found pleasure in discerning again the golden thread of fortune through the difficult years. And as a carriage halted noisily on the street outside, with some disagreement about payment, he remembered his own carriage journey south, less fine than the one he noted now.
He’d left his home village of Diseworth on 4 April 1620. It was a cold, stormy week of rain and late spring snow, smacking his cheeks and soaking his shoes. He’d walked to London alongside the carrier’s wagon – he had never been carried himself. ‘I footed it all along,’ he wrote, ‘arriving at half past three in the afternoon on Palm Sunday, 9 April, praise be to God,’ whereupon he made his tired way to the residence of Gilbert Wright, Master of the Salters’ Company, who lived at the Corner House on the Strand. And for the next seven years – had it been that long? – he worked as Wright’s servant and secretary. It was a secure enough post, but menial for one of his intelligence . . . and here regrets lingered.
For sometimes he looked north – he did on occasion – to the university at Cambridge where his fellow students had gone to study . . . students not as bright as he, for he outshone them all in Latin and should have joined them there. But his father could not pay the fees, and so it was the long walk south for the scholar denied – and the household chores of Mr Wright.