by Simon Parke
They both laughed.
‘Is he talking about Mrs Whorwood?’ said Dowcett, for there were rumours aplenty among the servants at Carisbrooke. ‘I prefer them sweet and plump.’
‘Abraham, you’re married!’
‘That doesn’t mean I find them.’
‘The king prefers them lean, it seems; and that’s the end of it.’
‘The king’s end, certainly.’
Charles had also written to Captain Titus, one of the four conservators, who now worked on his behalf. ‘I pray you, think upon how I might remove the bar from my window, without noise and unperceived; and what time it will take me to do it.’
Firebrace had been active in the same cause: ‘I have sent for files and aqua fortis from London, your majesty,’ he said through the wall one evening.
‘Can we trust our supplier?’
‘He is a locksmith called Farmer in Bow Lane, and loyal to our cause.’
‘Many say that.’
‘He is recommended by Mrs Whorwood.’
‘By Mrs Whorwood?’
‘Yes, sire.’ Firebrace knew he was home and dry.
‘And what can he do, this Mr Farmer?’
‘He can make us a saw to cut the bars asunder, and he offers aqua fortis besides.’
‘We have his promise, yet these things, they are still not here.’
Charles always saw the problem as if the world was tilted against him.
‘There has been a delay, your majesty; an unfortunate delay. Mrs Whorwood is doing her best.’
‘And her best is very good.’
‘So I hear, sire.’
‘What do you hear?’ Charles almost barked the words through the wall.
‘Only that she is a most determined and resourceful lady, your majesty; nothing more is meant.’
His majesty seemed touchy and Firebrace was glad of the wall between them.
‘She is an angel,’ said Charles, calmed. ‘Though I wonder if I’ll I have time enough.’
Had Charles found a further problem? He had too much time to ruminate. He should play more bowls, but kept away from the alley, imagining he was punishing Hammond.
‘Time enough for what, your majesty?’
‘Time enough after I have supped and gone to bed, to remove the bar – the window bar.’
‘There will be need for some preliminary endeavour.’
‘I need an Endless Screw; then I will be well.’
*
Firebrace was confident of his plan for the king’s escape . . . a new plan, which did not need the screw.
‘You change plans more often than I shit,’ said Dowcett, which Firebrace took as a compliment to his quick thought.
The previous scheme, involving the window and the files, he’d been unsure about; he didn’t trust the king with the prison bars. But remembering the Duke of York’s successful escape dressed as a girl – much talked of in the London press – he imagined a different way, the way of disguise. And the healing evenings were the perfect setting.
These occurred every week. The sick came to the castle, loitered after supper, and if they were lucky the king touched them and made them well – in time. Healing was not always immediate, Firebrace had noticed. It was presumably the same with Christ. And some died before the healing took effect; this could also happen, due to age and other considerations. But such things mattered little, for here was an easy door out of the castle. All the king had to do was step through.
‘It’s simpler than you can imagine,’ said Firebrace to his friend; he could call him that. ‘All we require is a loyal man in the crowd of supplicants garishly dressed. This is the heart of the trick. People must notice him, talk of him, pass comment.’
‘It does sound different,’ said Dowcett, who gave encouragement with reluctance.
‘Oh, it is different, Abraham, quite different from anything conceived before. And our character will wear a false beard – these can be obtained – and a periwig, a white cap, a blue coat, a pair of fustian drawers to come over his breeches, white cloth stockings, great shoes and an old broad hat.’
‘Does the plan become saner in a while?’
‘Patience! He will then step forward from the crowd and demand to be touched, when the king comes down for supper. He’ll be hard to ignore.’
‘Quite so.’
‘And now for the trickery. After he is touched, he will be taken for a drinking session in the servants’ quarters by myself – and perhaps you.’
‘I am not involved, Firebrace.’
‘You will wish you were, when the history books are written.’
‘Truly, I won’t. I prefer disaster from a distance.’
‘I will hail this fellow as an old friend and ensure he is seen by as many people as possible.’
‘The castle becomes a theatre.’
‘Indeed, we become actors all – for an identical set of clothes will be hidden in the king’s bedroom, and then the rest is simple. The king retires to his room after the meal, dresses up as the garish visitor, and on the signal – and with the cooperation of a trusted conservator on the door – he will arrive downstairs in the courtyard as the visitors are leaving. There he will merge with the crowd as they pass through the gate, and make his way to the meeting point, where the escape horses will be waiting.’
Firebrace wrote the details of the plan on a piece of paper which he left under the king’s carpet. After reading the notes, the king declared that he thought it might work.
‘I do much prefer the idea of disguise to removing the window bar,’ he said, to Firebrace’s delight.
The window had been much on the king’s mind, and more particularly the bars, the files and the aqua fortis. He did not have experience or knowledge of these tools; but the disguise was different. With Henrietta, he used to dress up with great effect for the masques. He liked dressing up.
*
After supper, the king would enjoy conversation with the guests and the subject was generally religion; apart from ejaculation with Jane, it was the matter most dear to his heart. And there was more time these days, for since April, fourteen courses had been reduced to ten, leaving additional space for debate after meals, with young Mr Troughton, his adversary tonight. Troughton was Hammond’s chaplain, an Independent in his theology and therefore quite beyond the pale for Charles, who argued with elegant force for the Anglican settlement and the Book of Common Prayer.
‘I would most certainly not have burned Cranmer,’ he explained when asked. ‘Though it took him to heaven sooner, so perhaps he gained?’
More and more, Charles contemplated his own mortality, and with the time captivity brings, composed meditations on the theme.
‘I would have burned him,’ said Troughton, mischievously.
‘And your reason?’
‘He placed us in a mad-jacket, your majesty.’
‘A mad-jacket?’
‘The Book of Common Prayer is such a restraining thing – when our prayers to God should be free and unconstrained.’
Charles smiled at the idiot. ‘I doubt God craves your unconstrained prayer, Mr Troughton – if your unconstrained speech is our yardstick.’ That won him some laughter. ‘Such rough and disordered words when compared to the beauty of Cranmer’s.’
‘If by rough you mean clean from the heart, then rough they may be, your majesty. But surely God likes the heart?’
‘I believe he prefers order, Mr Troughton. Truly, the heart is a most dangerous place.’
And then suddenly the king had a sword in his hand, which no one had foreseen. He’d reached out and seized it from one of the officers in the room, and such was the panic that even Troughton was quietened. And Charles did look wild; this was the memory. Ever since his barber had been dismissed at the end of February (for postal crimes) he’d been g
rowing his hair and beard. He trusted no one else with a sharp blade so close to his neck, where accidents can happen, and he now resembled John the Baptist emerging from the desert – a vagabond and a wild man . . . and the more so with a sword in his hand.
‘Your majesty!’
‘This is no war. Kneel, Mr Parfitt!’
Mr Parfitt was one of the attendants, and terrified. Was he to have his head removed?
‘Kneel, Mr Parfitt!’
Mr Parfitt found no support in the shocked circle, and slowly dropped to his knees. He felt he’d been a faithful subject, always faithful . . . and if he must die . . .
‘As your king, I knight thee, Sir William Parfitt, knight of this realm.’
The sword touched each shoulder.
‘Thank you, your honour . . . your highness.’
Mr Parfitt, the newest knight of the realm, had wet himself.
July 1648
Wood held the letter in his hand, with casual display.
‘Do you know Jane Whorwood?’ he asked.
They sat in Hammond’s study, a large room of dark dressers and chairs and a space that could swallow a person; though it didn’t swallow Wood.
‘Not to my knowledge,’ said Hammond.
‘You would know if you knew her,’ said the inquisitor. ‘People tend to . . . especially men.’ Hammond nodded. What was he talking about? ‘She prefers to remain unknown – though she’s well known to me.’
‘I weary quickly of riddles, Mr Wood,’ said Hammond. He did not warm to this man or trust him: one who never asked a question unless he knew the answer.
‘Still a soldier, I see,’ said Wood with a smile that chilled more than it cheered. A smile should warm rather than freeze, Hammond thought so. ‘Yet here is no riddle, Colonel, just a woman to fear.’
Hammond mocked at the idea. ‘To fear? And how is that to be imagined, Mr Wood? Does she sew people to death?’
‘Read this,’ said Wood, handing him the parchment.
Hammond held it steady in his hand. It was a letter from William Lilly, the odd astrologer fellow, to Wood and recorded a meeting with Mrs Whorwood. She’d apparently been seeking material assistance – aqua fortis, her primary need – for springing the king from captivity at Carisbrooke. Hammond felt ill.
‘She’s a close confidante of the king,’ said Wood. ‘Very close.’
‘How close?’
‘We hear Queen Henrietta applauds her royal support with one hand only.’
‘And you believe she comes here?’
‘I would say so.’
‘You would say so.’ How he hated this man. ‘And do we know her appearance?’
Wood paused for effect. ‘Jane Whorwood is a tall lady, slim build, oval face, red of hair and with a crevice or two in her smile. Have you seen her?’
‘So many pass through,’ said Hammond, knowing his answer was weak. It portrayed him as a man overwhelmed.
‘That describes a lot of your guards, does it?’
He could be a shit, Wood.
‘I will ask around, Mr Wood. I do my best here . . . amid my many duties.’
‘Exceedingly loyal, this woman; a most busy operator on behalf of Charles.’
‘I understand.’
‘The most loyal of any woman in England in his present miseries.’
‘You certainly speak her up, Mr Wood.’
‘I speak no one up. I merely notice what occurs . . . someone has to.’
Such a shit.
‘I do wonder, though, if you do not obsess a little too much about this woman?’ ventured Hammond, emboldened by dislike.
‘You think so?’
‘I do, Mr Wood. I wonder if perhaps you are not a little jealous for her?’ Wood offered nothing back and Hammond stumbled on. ‘And really, what damage can a woman do? Apart from burn a few cakes?’
‘They swive in the guardroom, Colonel, not fifty yards from where we sit – Charles and Jane.’
‘They do?’
‘She fucks with the king, a fact known by every dog in the street . . . except you, it seems.’
*
The meeting with Wood had been difficult. He didn’t care for the man; and to have his oversight exposed in such a manner! He’d definitely be speaking to Charles, who’d been allowed free access to the guardroom during the day, because, in his words, ‘I find it a sweeter place to compose my spiritual thoughts.’ This would be the end of such sweet composing.
But, though hard to conceive, he faced a darker encounter the following week, when he moved to dismiss his mother from her post in the kitchen. Hammond had not slept the night before, as he contemplated the horror. He had no choice, however; this was the plain fact, for she’d fallen out with everyone, which was her way. Two of his best staff were leaving due to her ‘judging comments’, and to incense matters further, Charles used her as a whipping stick, accusing Hammond of nepotism – when Robert had simply wanted a good kitchen for the king!
‘One of my staff described you as a man under the thumb of his mother,’ said Charles, as they walked one day in the courtyard. ‘Which caused some mirth, I’m afraid.’
‘I’m glad to entertain.’ He felt hot inside his skin at the thought. He would sack the king’s household in its entirety – and then who would be laughing?
‘But while that was possible – that you do indeed remain under her thumb – I said to them, surely everyone has the right to look after their family, no matter what the cost to others? I did my best to support you, Colonel. Nepotism has always seemed like a most sensible conceit to me. I mean, if you have access to treasure, why not hand out trinkets to those you hold dear? Quite so.’
Hammond found this most unfair. He’d had no wish to employ his mother, really he hadn’t, but had panicked at the king’s arrival, fearing for the table; and his mother did know her way round a kitchen. This was necessity not nepotism, two quite different islands with much water in between. Could Charles not see this? But the king had not forgiven her for reducing the food, this was remembered. He would not let that go, and his snide remarks about nepotism had been the final straw. He must sack his mother.
Robert discovered her in the kitchen, lecturing Josiah, a new steward. Hammond had learned how to souse a pig when a boy in Chertsey; clearly Josiah had not.
‘So after you’ve stuck the pig, Josiah, you let him bleed well, they must be quite drained. And then with scalding water and resin finely beaten, you take off the hair. Yes?’
‘Yes, Mrs Hammond.’
‘Are you listening?’
‘Yes, Mrs Hammond.’ He looked at her with the intensity of one not listening at all, the eyes trying to make up for the ears.
‘I will be asking you at the end, young man! What do you use to take off the hair?’ She’d ask now as well.
‘Water and—’
‘Scalding water.’
‘Scalding water . . . and resin finely beaten.’
‘All right. I’ve taught your thick skull something.’
‘Er, Mother?’ said Hammond.
She ignored him. ‘And then you let him lie in cold water, turning frequently – frequently, mind – until he looks white, white as chalk, and then cut off his feet. Have you cut off pigs’ feet before?’
‘No, Mrs Hammond.’
‘You haven’t lived much, have you?’
‘Er, Mother?’ said Hammond again – but she ignored him again . . . wilfully, he thought.
‘And then the big slit, we can do that together the first time – you slit him open, take out his innards and cut off his head. Hanged, drawn and quartered like all papists should be.’
This performance was clearly for Hammond.
‘You then take the two sides asunder, like these, lay them in cold water, steep there for a day and a night, changing the water t
hree times.’ Was she trying to prove herself, put her value on display? Hammond felt uncomfortable at this determined instruction. It took him back. ‘And then – and only then – you take out the bones, tying them as hard as possible in the fashion of a collar of brawn and wrap them in cloth – the whole head of the pig in another cloth – and boil in water, salt, cloves, mace, nutmeg and a little rosemary until tender. You can’t hurry tender, Josiah.’
‘No, Mrs Hammond.’
‘What can’t you hurry?’
‘Tender, Mrs Hammond.’
Robert could see why she ended up doing everything herself. She had the manner of a teacher, but not the skill of encouragement.
‘And then you let it cool, pouring over the liquor used to boil it, adding only some beer – good to add some beer – and the cooking is done. Not so hard, is it?’
‘No, Mrs Hammond.’ His body turned to go.
‘And then the presenting.’ Josiah turned back. ‘You set the two collars in a dish garnished with salt – the head entire in the middle – and stick in two sprigs of rosemary in flower and serve with saucers of mustard. Now, I want you to repeat that to me, everything you’ve learned.’
‘I wonder if I could have a word, Mother?’
Mrs Hammond looked up, as if to say, ‘The lengths I go to!’
‘Shall we walk a little?’ he said, as Josiah melted away like butter in a pan.
‘Josiah! I’ll be coming to find you!’ she called, but there was no reply from the kitchen shadows. Flustered, Mrs Hammond followed her son. ‘This is not a good time,’ she said. ‘Too much to be doing.’
She always had too much to be doing.
‘Is Josiah not the sharpest blade?’ said Hammond.
‘Blunt as a log and quite as soft.’
‘He will thank you one day,’ lied Hammond.
‘They need telling, these young ones. I do my best.’
And suddenly they were out of the corridor gloom and in the bright sunlight of the courtyard, where some soldiery loitered and heavy-hooved horses were brushed down; the salty air stiffened their manes, which needed attention.