Father, meanwhile, remains preoccupied with affairs of state – chiefly with the troublesome Militia Bill my uncle, Major-General Desborough, is trying to push through Parliament against the staunch opposition that John has marshalled. He has the unenviable task of keeping the peace around the Council table as Uncle Desborough, my brother-in-law Charles and the great Major-General Lambert rage against the civilian Councillors like the young moderate MP Nathaniel Fiennes, his fresh-faced brother-in-law Sir Charles Wolseley and the slippery Secretary Thurloe, who, they are sure, are all working quietly with Parliament against them. With each day, the conflict over Parliament’s bill seems to assume a greater meaning and I sense from the chatter along the tables at dinner and the conversations I see snatched in doorways that we are in for a bumpy ride.
For us, there is nothing to do but wait, anxiously, for news. Thus it is a taut, fidgeting Cromwell family that Thurloe visits in our private rooms in Whitehall on 19 January.
Foretold of his intentions, we have assembled around the fire in the privy dining room. Mother and Mary sit either side of me, our voluminous skirts overlapping on the narrow couch. Opposite us, Elizabeth and John recline close together, splendid in the latest fashions which I can admire closely as, for once, no children, servants or horses circle around them. My oldest brother Dick and his wife Dorothy have also joined us, again without their brood, and now promenade along the room arm in arm, speaking in low voices. Even Bridget has come from the townhouse she shares with her second husband, Major-General and Councillor Charles Fleetwood, and their patchworked family of shared and step-children. The oldest sibling living, she takes up a commanding position in a high-backed chair, stern and serious in grey silk. Charles himself paces behind her, his military frame coiling and snapping with energy, his presence too big somehow for the room. My eyes are drawn to him in the same way they are to Father and I think once again how very similar they are – something which explains their intense friendship.
And so we are almost a complete set, all present and correct save for my brother Harry and his family who are, of course, living in great state in Ireland, which he effectively governs, having taken over the administration of that troubled and exhausted country from my brother-in-law Charles. I sigh, wishing beyond anything else that he were here too, and I resolve to write to him later – I have left his last letter unanswered for two weeks now.
At the appointed hour, Father enters, Thurloe slipping in behind him like a sharp summer shadow. Father takes a seat beside Elizabeth and, patting her hand reassuringly, motions for us all to hush so Thurloe can speak. Charles, Richard and Dorothy settle in their chairs.
‘Your Highnesses.’ Thurloe bobs a semicircle before us, his back to the fireplace, face dark against the glow. ‘His Highness desires me to brief you all – together – on my findings into the late attempt on the palace before I make my report to Parliament later this afternoon. He is of the view, which I share, that this latest attempt on his life, occurring as it did within the palace, concerns you all and that you each have the right, therefore, to be fully informed.’
I find Thurloe’s pattern of speech strangely soothing: so lawyerly and fluid, layering clause upon clause like pastry. The effect of his voice is that my breathing slows, despite the violence he speaks of. Dick, now seated, leans forward, elbows on his knees.
‘This is what we know. The conspirators – we know of at least five – are disaffected Levellers; former soldiers for Parliament who want radical reforms to level society.’ It is clear that he adds this description for the benefit of Mary and me, though we read enough of the newspapers to know who the Levellers are. I look at Bridget as she shifts uncomfortably in her seat, her narrow face with its wide-set eyes pink and pinched. I know that she, an army bride in her youth, has some secret sympathy for such men – will this latest outrage change her mind?
‘These men wish Your Highness removed from office,’ Thurloe goes on, ‘and the Rump Parliament restored to its former power.’
He means the Parliament which sat all through the war, I think, the rump of whose purged members tried the old king, then sat on for four more years, refusing to disband and call free elections until Father forcibly dissolved the Parliament in ’53.
‘The conspirators planted a bomb in the chapel with the intention of destroying the whole palace by fire.’
Mary tenses and Mother puts her hand on her arm.
‘But how did they get in?’ Charles asks sharply, his dark blue eyes glaring at the secretary above his fine, high cheekbones.
Thurloe answers smoothly, unperturbed by Charles’s tone. ‘As you know, General, members of the public can enter the chapel at certain times of day and it seems, furthermore – and I regret to say this – that the group had some help from a member of His Highness’s personal life guard.’
We all gasp at that.
‘Who?’ John and Charles are both on their feet now, competing almost for the higher personal outrage: Charles as one of the leading officers of the army, from whom the life guard are recruited; John as one of the principal heads of Father’s household, to which the Life Guard belong. Though it is surely their commander, our cousin Lavinia’s adoring husband Major Richard Beke, who will be held to account, I think as I watch them.
Thurloe pauses. ‘I would prefer not to reveal his name for now as it was he who betrayed the conspiracy to us and I may have use for him yet.’
John and Charles look at Father but he merely nods, content as always to place his security entirely in Thurloe’s hands. His silence unnerves me. Bridget takes Charles’s hand and pulls him gently to sit back down beside her. ‘So they have been planning this for some time, Master Thurloe?’ she asks.
‘In truth, Mrs Fleetwood, this outrage was planned in haste, which explains in part why my informants were not alerted to it. We had been tracking some members of the group for months and knew that there had been other attempts on your father’s life.’
I watch tears trickle down Mary’s cheeks; of all of us she is always the most fearful for Father’s safety. Mother knows this too and I feel her stiffen beside me: she will yearn to comfort Mary but won’t do so in front of Secretary Thurloe.
‘God’s blood.’ It is Dick who curses and he leans back in his chair, his face glazed. ‘What means have they tried?’
‘Mostly the pistol, when they can get close enough. Though our precautions have not made it easy for them – His Highness’s guard and the variations we make to all travel plans. It seems the closest they came to the Lord Protector was in Hyde Park some weeks ago, though, in that instance, it was your father himself who was the unwitting foil for their plans. One of the men was waiting his chance when His Highness, passing close by, noted the man’s exceptional mount and actually called him over to compliment him on his horse, at which point the villain lost his nerve.’
Thurloe’s words are swallowed in a thick silence for one moment, then two, before an eruption of deep-throated laughter brings all eyes to Father. ‘Ha!’ His whole body convulses as he shakes his head over and over the same two words: ‘His horse!’ He looks to John, hoping it seems to share the equine joke.
John’s laughing eyes meet his. ‘Well, you have always had a keen eye for the nags, Highness, I cannot deny it. Though I had never thought it would save your life!’
Mary giggles through her tears and I smile, though more with pleasure that the joke could not be better fitted to cheer her, than through any great merriment. A few others of the family chuckle nervously and we all breathe again, relieved at the temporary break in tension.
It is Charles whose stern voice brings the meeting back to order. ‘These men, Thurloe. Who is their chief? Who are their backers?’
‘Their commander, I regret to tell you, General, is Edward Sexby.’
‘Sexby.’ Father’s face falls at the mention of his former friend. The man who had served in Father’s own regiment of Ironsides during the late civil wars. The hero whom Father had chosen to t
ake news of his great victory at Preston to Parliament. The mercenary whose debts of a thousand pounds were met by Parliament only on Father’s intervention.
‘I’m afraid so. Backed by Spanish gold, aided by exiled royalists – a more unholy alliance it is hard to imagine.’
Father looks ashen, all mirth about horses drained from his furrowed face. Betty places a ringed hand on his arm.
‘You must not shrink from this, my dear,’ Mother says, her voice gentle but firm. ‘You must not let Sexby and the others cause you to doubt yourself or the good you do.’
Father smiles at her in thanks, though the smile does not reach his eyes. Every one of us in that room knows that Father’s self-doubt runs to oceans, where most of ours fills only a garden pond. I have come to believe that this is the unwelcome companion to his closeness to God: the insecurity he feels in himself when he cannot fathom the Lord’s intentions matched only by his blazing certainty when he can. Only in this way can the man who thundered onto the battlefield with God’s breath in his lungs and strength in his sword be the same man who trembled with indecision each time Dick asked him to settle his gambling debts.
‘But some good has come of this, Highness,’ Thurloe says softly. ‘We finally have the evidence we need to move against Sexby. And once we have done so I hope – I pray – that all of you will be a good deal safer.’
‘There, Father,’ Betty says, her voice cheering. ‘Master Thurloe has words of comfort at the end. And perhaps more good may yet come of this once Parliament has been told all.’
Wordlessly, Father takes her hand from his arm and tucks it under his elbow, dropping his heavy head so his chin sinks onto his chest. I – and perhaps only I – see the glance of encouragement Betty then exchanges with her husband.
‘Indeed, Highness,’ John continues seamlessly. ‘There are many in the House who would see the country placed on a firmer footing and believe making you king the best way to achieve lasting safety and stability. This latest danger may be the call to action they need to gather support for the idea. Do you not agree, Master Secretary?’
Thurloe spreads his hands in a gesture of practised ignorance, though something in the tilt of his head suggests quite the reverse. I watch him carefully but he gives nothing away.
‘Nonsense,’ Charles snaps before Father can answer. ‘The best guarantor of the realm’s safety is strong government by the Major-Generals, and it would be madness to withdraw the army from the localities just as our enemies rise against us.’
He rises from his chair as if to emphasise his point and paces purposefully but without aim around the room. As my gaze follows him, I cannot help thinking how loath Charles would be to lose the great power he has acquired as Major-General of the eastern counties: he governs a vast territory stretching from the outskirts of London up to the Wash and from Oxford across to Norwich. Even if, for the most part, he likes to keep to the corridors of power in Whitehall and leave subordinates to deputise in his place, still it is he who makes the key decisions and only Father can challenge his rulings.
‘Besides, Father would never countenance such a thing.’ Bridget’s clipped voice brings me back to the room as she looks past Father to scowl at John and Elizabeth. ‘This Protectorate is bad enough but to end the republic entirely is unthinkable.’
I cringe at her words, not on my own behalf so much as on Father’s. No one speaks to challenge her; we all know that Bridget, schooled in the radical republican politics of the army as Henry Ireton’s wife, struggles with our family’s elevation. But always the love and affection Mother and Father bear for each of us in our differences allows her to speak her mind freely.
‘Biddy speaks truly,’ Charles says, striding back to his seat and brushing a speck of dirt from it before sitting. ‘The army would never tolerate it.’ He shakes his head firmly, the fair curls at his neck brushing back and forth over his high white collar. ‘The Lord has passed judgement on the office of king and we would all do well to listen.’
I look from one sister and brother-in-law to the other and glimpse a fragment of the abiding conflict between the army and Parliament refracted before me like sunlight in a broken mirror. I lean towards Betty and John as I always do when I observe these arguments. I cannot help myself: I am so much closer to Betty. We are so similar, both accustomed to life as the youngest child, both so like Father whom we adore and draw towards, where Mary cleaves more naturally to Mother and Biddy sails her own enigmatic course. But this time I check myself, remembering that I should not believe the Claypoles’ reasoning to be right simply because of my partiality; my tutors would hardly approve of such childish irrationality.
I wonder if Father shares my difficulty and turn to him, expecting him to speak honeyed words and smooth ruffled feathers. But he is lost in the forest of his own thoughts and that night, after I have written to Harry to tell him all we have learned of the plot, Mary and I pray to God, not for the first time, that he finds his way back through them.
I had thought little of Robert Rich since his impudence in the stables and so find myself caught unawares when he glides across to Mary and me towards the end of supper one evening a few weeks later. We are in the Great Hall of Whitehall Palace dining with the court, the rich aromas of roasted meat, cheese and wine rising from the long tables like steam from a hot bath, the sounds of laughter, chatter and the scraping of cutlery on pewter bubbling around us. It is a Thursday and so Father has gone, as he often does on this day, to dine with his officers at Somerset House where – I imagine – war stories, toasts to victories and tears for the fallen will cause him to drink more wine than he can hold.
In his absence, Mother is presiding at supper, the nerves she always feels when she does so visible only to me who knows so well what the finger she runs under the pearl necklace that sits beneath her smiles really means. Watching her now I have to pinch myself to remember that she is the same mother of my childhood, who used to make her own candles and darn our stockings before the fire to make ends meet.
This evening, by contrast, Mother is entertaining the French ambassador Monsieur Bordeaux while the rest of us deploy our charm on members of the Council of State. It is an uphill task, however, with the Council still bitterly divided between the army leaders and their civilian counterparts, the former smarting from yesterday’s defeat of the Militia Bill in Parliament by one hundred and twenty-four votes to eighty-eight. Indeed, I notice that Uncle Desborough is not among his fellow Councillors but sits further off, directing the occasional glower at John for masterminding the downfall of his beloved bill. No doubt he wishes he had chosen to dine with the army instead.
My uncle is a carthorse of a man. A man built for the outdoors, whether farm or army camp, who always seems uncomfortable at fine court occasions like this; too big and blustery for anything more luxurious than the fireside of a coaching inn. I am sorry to see him out of sorts but remind myself that there is no solace he would accept from me, being nothing to him but a chit of a girl.
John, in contrast, is in a buoyant mood, either oblivious or unconcerned at his wife’s uncle’s stares. In his gaiety, he fills my glass of wine far higher than either of my brothers would.
‘Doesn’t it bother you?’ I ask him as I sip the claret, motioning with my glass down the table to Uncle Desborough, now attacking a wedge of game pie with his knife.
‘I believe in being cheerful while I can,’ John replies, his words muffled as he chews. ‘Mark me, there’ll be worse to come. This is but a skirmish – the prelude to a proper battle. Wait until we have drafted the new constitution, then there’ll be blood on the field.’
There is to be music after supper and it is in the movement and rearrangement of people and the scrape of chairs that always precedes this that Robert Rich approaches us with lively dancing steps. He is dressed this evening in a pale blue suit, his choice of soft buckled shoes rather than riding boots marking him out as a young man of fashion reacting against the warlike garb of his elders. A tall y
oung man with brilliant fair hair and an upright bearing hovers at his side. I recognise him as Anthony Underwood, one of the gentlemen of Father’s bedchamber – his closest attendants.
‘Ladies.’ Robert bows low with his customary courtly swagger that, to me, betokens amused irony as much as deference. ‘May Mr Underwood and I join you?’
‘Sirs,’ Mary says, her encouraging smile a mirror image of my own insincere expression. ‘A pleasure.’
‘The pleasure and the honour is mine, Lady Mary, Lady Frances,’ Anthony Underwood says in the soft burr of the West Country.
He is a handsome man and I cannot help but sit a little straighter in my blue silk, congratulating myself for whatever foresight led me to choose one of my finest dresses that evening; conscious too of its low lace-trimmed neckline showing me to my best advantage as the men stand before us. I catch Robert’s eye and pray that he has no gift for reading my thoughts; it is embarrassing enough to have him attempt to match-make for me. Worse than embarrassing, I decide as I return his look; infuriating. I wish to meet young men on my own terms and substituting Robert Rich for my parents as a marriage negotiator hardly helps me do this.
‘You are off duty, Mr Underwood, with my father at Somerset House?’ I ask, ignoring Robert and turning my attention to his companion as the two men sit on the bench opposite us.
‘I am, my Lady. I welcome the respite, though of course,’ he adds quickly, ‘I am most fortunate to be so much in His Highness’s company.’
I smile at this, always pleased to hear Father appreciated.
‘It must be a demanding post though, Anthony, however prestigious,’ Robert says, leaning back in an attitude of languor. ‘Whatever my respect for your father, my ladies, I’m not sure I would care to spend so much of the day running his errands, dressing and undressing him and attending him on the close stool.’
The Puritan Princess Page 5