by Simon Parke
*
The king’s escape drew nearer.
In response to Firebrace’s plan, the king started taking daily walks round the castle, surveying the escape route. He felt confident and predicted success for the scheme; Firebrace felt the same, pleased with his careful planning. The king thought Dowcett might be a weak link and shared this privately with Firebrace, who nodded and tutted, though in his estimation the break in the chain was more likely to be the king.
‘Only the king can upset a good outcome,’ he told Dowcett. ‘All else is well in hand.’
‘Is he worth the trouble?’
‘Hush now, Abraham. Those are not good words when we have work to do. I will flush the king from this place!’
*
It was the night of the escape and the stars were bright with excitement. With the boat in place, moored not far away, Worsley and Osborne approached the castle walls with the horses. Firebrace was in the courtyard below Charles’ window, taking an evening stroll. He had not spoken with the king today, but they had communicated yesterday through the wall, and all was in hand. There was alcoholic laughter from the guardrooms, which was all to the good.
‘Drink well tonight,’ muttered Firebrace. ‘And you will wake with very sore heads indeed!’
The king’s window was thirteen feet above the courtyard. There was no light from there, as arranged, and the rope was ready, smuggled into his bedroom by Dowcett, using the back stairs. It was time.
Firebrace looked around and threw a stone towards the window, to indicate it was safe for the king to make his move, to begin his descent. The king was waiting, standing in the darkness of his bedroom. He crossed himself briefly and the escape from Carisbrooke was under way.
The window opened, a figure appeared in the frame . . . it was Charles, moving awkwardly. Firebrace watched. There was a scuffling noise as Charles twisted his body to the shape, forcing it through the narrow portal between the bars. Firebrace peered into the courtyard gloom for any guard on patrol, but saw none. They seemed well set in revelry for the night – it could hardly be more propitious. And then above his head, a groan; the king, despite rigorous struggle, was stuck.
Firebrace had told him he’d need to remove one of the bars. The king said he could get his head through without removing them; he felt the opening was quite wide enough. Firebrace said he should dislodge the bar, by chipping away beneath; it could easily be done. But the king said such work would be noticed, that they would notice the damage to the cement work. He then encouraged Firebrace to concentrate on his part in the escape . . . which he had, and now regretted. Everything he had planned was in place, but the king was stuck between the bars, beneath a bright starlit sky.
He willed the king through, as one giving birth, but heard only struggle, more groans and then silence. Firebrace thought for a moment that he might have fallen, difficult to explain, but no; for now candlelight appeared from the king’s window, which was some relief. The king was safely back inside. The guardroom merriment continued, his escape attempt unfulfilled – but also undiscovered.
‘Where is the king?’ asked Worsley, nervous at their hazardous predicament beyond the castle, with a spare horse. This was not the place to be exposed.
‘He will not be coming,’ said Firebrace, in a shouted whisper.
‘What?’
‘He will not be coming!’
‘Why not?’
‘He just will not. There is mischief.’
‘Mischief?’
‘I cannot perform miracles. Now go!’
‘But Mr Newland is ready.’
‘And the king is not, which leaves us nowhere! Now ride – or we’ll be seen!’
He wouldn’t tell them about the window; they might curse the king, which they would regret in the morning. And so Osborne and Worsley rode away, complaining about the incompetence of Firebrace, who turned back towards the castle and retired to bed.
Dowcett was waiting outside his room. ‘A good night?’ he asked.
‘I have known preferable evenings.’
‘The king remains?’
‘He remains.’ Dowcett left a pause which Firebrace filled. ‘He became lodged in the window,’ he explained, looking around to ensure no one listened in. There was always a soldier somewhere.
‘Lodged?’
‘Stuck – stuck between the bars.’
‘Which you asked him to remove.’
‘I did make that suggestion. He had to fall back into his room in the end. He may be a little sore in the morning.’
‘Much wasted time,’ said Dowcett as he turned and walked away, leaving Firebrace alone in the corridor, glad only that their tracks were covered and that none need ever know what had been planned this night.
Only in time, they would; because there were no secrets at Carisbrooke.
June 1648
June found the king unsettled. The rain would not stop, quite merciless in its persistence, and thoroughly removing the joy of the month. In his youth, pink/red roses had grown in the Spring Gardens of St James’s Palace; he remembered them well, forerunners of summer. But none grew here, perhaps frightened by the rain. It beat against his window like a mad beggar and spoke despair and hopelessness.
Until now, he had felt a man in control of his affairs. He was king, after all, and no one could govern without him, this was common knowledge, and of course his enemies were divided, increasing his value. He could escape when he wished; this had been his sense. And he would escape, if it served his cause. There were plenty of loyal subjects waiting only for his nod.
But should a king have his cabinet broken into? That was treason, surely?
‘You search my rooms?’ he had said to Hammond, with understandable shock.
‘What if I do?’ Hammond replied, flustered.
‘An invasion of the king’s person. I can hardly believe it of you, Colonel.’
‘I’m afraid you’re a prisoner here, your majesty, and one can search a prison cell. It is not the king’s residence in Whitehall.’
Hammond was furious that he had been caught. He had met Thomas Herbert just as he was leaving the king’s rooms, while his majesty ate. It was the best time for a search, when the king was enjoying his food, but his majesty had sent Herbert upstairs to fetch his coat, hence the unfortunate meeting; and Herbert would tell the king . . . because the wretch told the king everything.
‘You do not trust me?’ said Charles.
Hammond smiled in despair. ‘You rise early, sire, and retire late to bed; but there are those who wonder what you do with your time in between . . . and your ink.’
No one wondered – everyone knew. Much of the royal correspondence was being intercepted, once it had left the island.
‘He might as well address it to Cromwell!’ they said.
*
It was in 1635 that the institution of the post office was created. Wood remembered the date and sneered at the man behind it: Thomas Witherings, an unsavoury London merchant, and not a man for the history books. He’d proposed to Charles’ council ‘to settle a packet post between London and all parts of his majesty’s dominions for the carrying and re-carrying of his subjects’ letters’. It would require the building of six great roads, he’d explained, the expense of which did choke them a little; but he’d justified the outlay with some cunning, claiming speed of internal communication was vital to the country’s defences against the darkly evil Spaniards. Wood smiled bleakly at the thought: this new-fangled post service at once elevated from a business to a cause! It was for the defence of the realm, long live the king! Witherings was nothing but a chancer, of course; yet from such talk emerged a service required to run night and day, and with stipulations – many stipulations – about speed of delivery. Post between London and Edinburgh, for instance, was to travel there and back within six days.
‘He is a man of
dubious integrity, Oliver, a slippery fellow,’ said Wood.
‘Witherings? I am well aware. Parliament sacked him often, I recall.’
‘And each time, they’d bring him back.’
‘I know.’ It hadn’t been Cromwell’s doing.
‘He’s like a bouncing ball in a field of shit – he does return a great deal, and each time a little more coated.’
‘A king’s man, I’m afraid.’
‘But we must applaud his creation, Oliver: staging posts at an interval of twenty miles in the south parts of England. I confess to being impressed.’
It was rare that Wood gave credit to an intelligence other than his own.
‘And the north?’ Cromwell knew of its deficiencies beyond Ware.
‘The north is less well served, I grant you . . . unless you travel to Edinburgh.’
‘And soon I might,’ said Cromwell. ‘But with an army rather than a packet. There is growing malignancy north of the border.’
*
Hammond would use the postal service for regular letters; this was his habit. They took a day to reach London, unless the Solent was choppy. And on occasion, the king himself took advantage of the service he’d sanctioned, for there was no faster delivery. But out of discretion he generally favoured his own couriers, including ‘the plain fat man’, a relentless carrier of royal post.
The king’s letters were less secret than he imagined, however; for parliament’s Derby House Committee heard everything. They employed a spider’s web of agents, and at the centre of the web sat the largest spider of all – Secretary Walter Frost, who guarded the names of informers so closely that not even the committee knew who they were. They were ‘Walter’s Ears’, anonymous and everywhere, listening to the nation – in streets, taverns, army bases, post-houses . . . and in Carisbrooke Castle itself. The enemies of Charles, they knew what Charles was doing – but knowing and stopping were quite different animals.
There was due deference to be considered. He was a shit, but a shit who was king.
*
Relationships! It had all been so messy between Hammond and Charles of late; but how much more pickled had it become yesterday?
Hammond had recently discovered royal letters pinned on the wall behind the wall hangings – awaiting collection by Firebrace, it transpired. But he’d found them by chance rather than intelligence, as he searched for another – and very particular – jewel: Charles’ agreement with the Scots. Everyone knew of it, but no one could find it, and Hammond was determined not to appear the fool again.
‘To break open my cabinet – and with such force!’ complained Charles.
The force seemed only to add to the sacrilege.
‘We must have no secrets from each other, your majesty.’
‘For the good of the nation, a king must always have secrets, especially in his bedchamber! I do not inquire after your behaviour there.’
‘I am not your prisoner; and I noted the cabinet was locked.’
‘Of course it was locked! Is not your cabinet locked? I truly hope so.’
‘A prisoner cannot have locked-away things, your majesty.’
Should the agreement be found, the king would be a damaged vessel indeed. But having smashed open his cabinet, Hammond had found nothing, apart from Charles’ spiritual writings, which held no interest. And so the king’s rage was pretend, and his mood relaxed, playful even. His good cheer sang of his relief at Hammond’s failure . . . and ate at the soul of his gaoler. There and then, he decided to proceed further with this matter.
‘And so I must search your person, your majesty.’
‘I do not think so!’
Charles did not believe he would; surely he would not search the king’s person?
‘You give me no choice.’
He moved towards the king, who moved back, until stopped by the royal bed.
‘No man touches the king!’
‘Every prisoner must be searched. Now, please—’
Hammond reached forward, taking hold of the king’s jacket; much inflamed, Charles pushed him back. When the colonel came forward again, Charles struck him with his fist, hitting Hammond’s chin, a scuffed blow – but he would not stand for this invasion, he simply would not! If the king wished for a duel, then he had one, and full of fury, Hammond struck him back. He struck the king – and a harder blow as well, knocking the small figure backwards, on to the bed, like brothers playing.
Only one was a great deal stronger.
*
‘Well,’ said Charles, sitting on the side of the bed, dabbing at his lip, a little bloody. His face was marked in a way Hammond’s was not, a swelling appearing.
‘You struck me, your majesty.’
‘I would like my cabinet mended and the lock returned, Colonel.’ Hammond nodded. ‘I believe it is the least you can do.’
‘We can mend it, your majesty – but whether we can lock it again, I don’t know.’
He knew his attempt to search the king’s person had failed. It would not be possible now; any secrets in his pockets would remain there.
‘I do forgive you, Robert,’ said Charles as he stood up and brushed himself down. His lip was growing visibly. ‘I know you act under the orders of careless men; so please receive my forgiveness for these violent acts. I forgive you, truly.’
Robert nodded and wished that he might retire tonight, and leave the island in the morning. And what if Charles returned to the throne, which surely he would? What future for Hammond then?
*
It was a victory for Charles, despite the sore lip. Hammond avoided him in the following days, and there were no more searches. Not that there was much of note to find; the agreement with the Scots had been smuggled out ten days before this altercation. But despite such happy circumstance, the king did not feel cheered: the new troops would stare at him with dead eyes, as one might gaze on someone of known disrepute, and he heard the army were once again finding unity of purpose . . . very bad news.
And then a message from London. It was brought to the island by the plain, fat man and left under the carpet by Firebrace. The king’s son, the Duke of York, had managed to flee his imprisonment in St James’s Palace, dressed as a girl, which was most inventive. And how gloriously humiliating for his captors! The boy had then been whisked away by agents of the émigré English court in Holland, and placed on a pincke which had stood for two weeks off Gravesend . . . so clearly a son with his father’s spirit and his mother’s skill in performance.
But there the celebration ended and the self-punishment began, for while the prince had escaped, he had not. His son had rather shown him up, he felt; he’d taken the glory on offer and left his father drifting towards futility and frustration. And when he next met Hammond, in need of someone to blame, he gave him a piece of the royal mind.
‘You are grown very high since you came to the island, Hammond.’
‘I did not seek this task, your majesty.’
‘Perhaps you sought to be a pugilist instead?’ Hammond looked sheepish. He was yet to reach an agreeable place within himself, concerning his action against the king; certainly he had not told it to anyone. ‘And whether or not you sought it, Colonel, I believe you were rather pleased to be granted such a posting.’
‘Such a posting, yes, but not such a prisoner.’ Who would want Charles for a prisoner?
‘A prisoner who will have the power of life and death over you one day,’ said the king.
‘The bowling green is ready, your majesty, and has been for a while. It waits only your royal skill.’
‘Believe me, a bowling green will not save you.’
They’d started to build the green in February. It was an attempt to keep the king’s mind on matters other than duplicity and escape – though it failed at present, if the London press was to be believed. The date of o
ne rumoured escape plan had passed, with the king still confined, but the topic did not die, with Londoners reading of ever more imaginative plots, including the violent seizure of the castle (foreseen by Hammond in a vision) and his majesty carried away by attendants in a wheelbarrow. It was duly recommended by the reporter – for one cannot be too careful – that parliament order Vice-Admiral Rainsborough ‘to stop, search and examine all wheelbarrows that shall presume to pass betwixt Dover and Calais and betwixt Southampton and the Isle of Wight’.
What could Hammond do? While London laughed, he interviewed Firebrace and a number of others, making things absolutely clear; but they said they knew of no escape plans and would most assuredly report them if they did.
He spoke privately with Firebrace. ‘I believe we can trust one another,’ he said.
‘Indeed so, Colonel. I take no sides in this regrettable moment.’
‘And you understand that the king must be kept here, for his own safety as much as anything else.’
‘The king himself wishes to stay, so how could I disagree?’
‘It’s just that, well, you hear stories . . . I hear stories.’
‘The inventions of the London press; I would pay no attention.’
Hammond smiled weakly and remained a man in the dark – in charge of a castle with a seeming life of its own.
*
‘The king believes that his next escape shall succeed,’ said Firebrace to Dowcett, whose shrug declared no interest. ‘I have a letter from him.’
Yes, Firebrace received letters from the king now; surely the first seller of pig’s livers in Swindon to do so? It was a shame his mother had not lived to hear of this. Though she probably would have said: ‘And you wish me to be amazed?’
‘Shall I read from it?’ said Firebrace, eager.
‘No,’ said Dowcett. ‘Oh, all right, then.’ Firebrace deserved the pleasure.
‘He says, “The n-n-n-narrowness of the window was the only impediment for m-m-my escape”.’ Firebrace caught his Scottish lilt surprisingly well, and the stammer.
‘No – he was,’ said Dowcett.
‘All he needs, he says, is an instrument to remove the bar, “which I believe is not hard to get, for I have seen many of them – and so portable that a man might put them in his pocket. I think it is called the Great F-f-force or The Endless Screw”.’