A week later, Father’s deliverance from danger is celebrated across all three nations with a day of national thanksgiving: apprentices are excused work, servants sent home to their families and the taverns run dry of ale. I give thanks again for my family’s safety and pray fervently that we shall face no more danger. And I am not alone in my unease: the celebrations cannot prevent the continued hysteria in certain quarters of the press nor smooth the furrow between Secretary Thurloe’s brows. Other plotters – Sexby chief among them – remain at large, aided by our royalist enemies. Worst still, the papers claim Spanish and Irish troops are being mustered in Flanders ready to sail for England with the ‘king’ in exile, young Charles Stuart, at the head of the fleet. Thurloe sends letters out to every militia up and down the three nations placing them on the highest security alert; Father and the Council sit late into each night; and the country holds its breath.
CHAPTER THREE
I am quite happy to be distracted from these anxieties by a more pleasant thought: I am certain that Mary has taken a shine to Nicholas Baxter, Father’s Gentleman of the Horse. I catch them speaking outside the chapel at Hampton Court after the Lord’s Day service and again the next day when he sees us into our carriage for the return journey to Whitehall. Each time, she rises up on her toes a little as they speak, her dark head a fraction closer to his red one. I have never seen her do that with a man before.
Mary denies it of course, though she does not meet my eye as she does: ‘If speaking with a gentleman above a few times qualifies one as being in love, then I would assume you to be in love with Robert Rich.’ She smiles at that, pleased with herself.
‘Oh no.’ It is my turn at vigorous denial. ‘He is an arrogant layabout and quite infuriating,’ I go on, though I find myself lapsing into more favourable thoughts of him in the silence that follows. He had revealed so much more of himself in our conversation at the feast, and had appeared interested in my own thoughts. Were we, perhaps, becoming friends?
Mary and I are in the Claypoles’ nursery in our family’s private apartments at Whitehall, playing on the floor with our nieces and nephews while Elizabeth, Mother, and Father’s spinster sister Aunt Liz have gone for a drive in St James’s Park. We love spending time with the children, of course, but our real purpose is to catch John the moment he returns from Parliament with news of the newly proposed constitution with its rumoured suggestion of Father’s kingship: a change which would affect us all.
The children tumble and fight sweetly, toys and tears jumbled in one long burst of energy. As the afternoon wears on, I am prevailed on to draw a horse and carriage, a tree and an angel while Mary works her magic with the dolls; always her playthings of choice. Our ladies Katherine and Anne, attending on us, sit in the corner and gossip quietly over their sewing. Watching them, I wonder if they are swapping notes on married life, conversing in the foreign language of wives which is unknown to me.
When the others return from the park, we have wine and cakes in the withdrawing room next door and talk, nervously, of Parliament’s proposals.
‘But why would Parliament wish to make Father king?’ I direct my question to Mother. ‘Doesn’t he already have a king’s powers as Protector? More, even.’
‘Yes, my dear,’ she says, wincing as she wiggles her right foot out of a pinching shoe. ‘In effect. But this is not about your father’s powers, so much as the principle on which they rest.’
‘Exactly.’ Elizabeth cuts in smoothly. ‘Remember, the constitution which founded this Protectorate was drawn up by John Lambert and the other army generals, not by Parliament. But the Major-Generals are unpopular with the people and their power is waning with the defeat of Uncle Desborough’s Militia Bill. It makes sense that now the country is more stable and settled, Parliament would wish to replace the army’s constitution with one of its own creation, based along more traditional lines and so more likely to attract the wider support of the public.’
‘Our brother-in-law Charles would not be pleased to hear you speak of the army so.’ I arch an eyebrow over my glass.
‘Charles can raise the matter with God, as they are on such close terms,’ Elizabeth replies shortly. ‘Biddy too.’
‘Betty.’ It is Mother’s turn to scold. ‘Charles and Bridget only want what is best for the country and for your father, as we all do. They are bound sometimes to take a different view from you and John on how this is to be achieved; they are so closely involved with the army, just as you and John are with Parliament and its representatives at court.’
Elizabeth smiles in apology; her disposition is as June sunshine, never clouded for long, and Mother, like Mary, can always make any of us friends again with only a few words.
‘Would it help to keep Father safe if he is made king?’ Mary asks, stroking Betty’s little girl who clutches a doll on her lap.
‘It might help to keep us all safe,’ Elizabeth replies. ‘It is no accident that Parliament proposes this in the wake of the assassination plots – it wants a lasting settlement, with Father king and the succession secured.’
‘That’s another argument I heard from Bulstrode Whitelocke at the dinner for Parliament,’ I say, determined to seem knowledgeable. ‘He took a lawyer’s view, saying that with Father king, all men would know their restrictions, but also their rights. The people understand what a king is, what rights of theirs he guarantees, and what befalls them if they plot against him. And, what’s more, they trust what they know. Whereas they don’t understand the role of Lord Protector, they don’t trust it, don’t know where they stand …’
As my words tail off I cast my mind back to the Protectors of the last two hundred years: Somerset, brother-in-law to King Henry VIII, who governed in Henry’s son King Edward VI’s minority and ended his days on the scaffold; before him, Richard, Duke of Gloucester, another uncle, who it’s rumoured killed his nephews in the Tower of London when he seized the throne; and before that, the succession of dukes who ruled as Protectors in the bloody civil wars between York and Lancaster. These were not happy precedents, neither were they enduring; in each case a protector had merely kept the throne warm for a king.
‘I know John takes that view,’ Betty says before sitting up in her chair. ‘And he can tell you himself, I hear him in the antechamber.’
The next moment brings John in to us, his basset hound Badger as ever at his heels. The boys run to the dog as John removes his gloves.
‘Well?’ Elizabeth crosses the room to her husband and kisses him on the cheek, handing him a glass of wine.
John greets his mother-in-law with a kiss, bows to Aunt Liz and grins at Mary and me, before collapsing onto the couch and drinking off half his glass in one go.
‘Sir Christopher Pack proposed the new constitution and the House is to debate it over the coming days. There are many who will be for it, I think.’
Elizabeth lowers herself beside him. ‘And the main components of this constitution?’
‘Three.’ John holds out a hand and nonchalantly checks them off on his fingers. ‘A second chamber for Parliament to replace the House of Lords that was abolished with the monarchy in ’49. A new national church instead of the many styles of free worship we have now. And … your father to become king. They are already placing bets on it in the City. Even odds now, I believe. Perhaps I’ll see if Dick fancies a bet.’
Mother frowns in mild disapproval and we sit for a few moments in silence, all of us working through this list in our heads.
‘Your father may accept the first element,’ Aunt Liz says, folding her thin hands in her lap. ‘It’s the old way of government he likes best. But he will struggle with the second. Freedom for people to worship as they choose has been a passion of his since he was a boy.’
‘Toleration is his cornerstone,’ Mother nods in agreement. ‘He won’t have the corrupt bishops returned by the back door to rule over their congregations again, demanding attendance, telling men how to worship and punishing them if they do not. He used to
believe he could restore a national church, broad enough to welcome all Protestant faiths, but the intolerance of the Presbyterians in Parliament has put paid to that.’
I look at the two women, trying to imagine their life in Father’s household when he was the young head of the family. How his every opinion, every action must have mattered to them and how they must have sat, just as they do now, for hours on end poring over his views.
I return my thoughts to the present. ‘But the crown?’ I ask, captivated as always in equal parts excitement and terror by the idea.
‘That,’ John says, ‘is the great unknown. Your father has always professed a liking for monarchy above all other systems of government. It was the tyrant King Charles he fought against, not the office of king itself.’
‘But with he himself as the monarch?’ Elizabeth parries her husband’s words, doubt edging her voice.
‘Aye. That’s the rub. Well.’ John sits forward, placing his empty cup on the side table. ‘Though we don’t know the outcome, we must prepare for the change in case it comes. It would affect all of us; you girls above all,’ he adds, looking pointedly at Mary and me.
I know full well what he means; I have seen my future written in Signor Giavarina’s dark face. My nerves spill over into irritation: ‘I love you well, John, but I wish you would stop calling us girls. If we are but girls, you can hardly be alluding to our marriages as I know you are.’
John laughs good-humouredly and inclines his head at me in supplication. ‘Very well, Fanny. But there is another descriptor which we would apply to you and Mall were Oliver to become king, that of “princess”. And if you become princesses then there will be all sorts of nobles after you – foreign princes, even. My Betty won’t benefit though, I’m glad to say. She’s stuck with me!’ He kisses Elizabeth then, a warm kiss, full on the mouth, one hand flat over her rounded stomach.
I watch them longingly, wondering if I will find as much love in my marriage as they have. Elizabeth has been lucky with John; they fell in love with their parents’ natural approval. It was only because of this that Father could bring himself to give his consent when his beloved Betty was but sixteen.
Bridget and Henry’s match was a little more contrived, I believe, as he was Father’s army deputy at the time. But there must have been a real attraction between them and I understand they found an intense, almost religious love together – Biddy was certainly struck down with grief and rage at his death. But her second marriage to Charles? Another match with an army colleague of Father’s? I could never tell what love lay there. Bridget married Charles so quickly, still a raw widow, and Charles’s own first wife had been laid in the earth only six months earlier – just a few days separating her and Henry’s deaths. That made for an unusual wedding. But then Mary and I have always secretly wondered if Bridget hadn’t welcomed her marriage martyrdoms, embracing her own contribution to Parliament’s precious ‘Good Old Cause’ against the king; the cause which had claimed the blood and sweat of Father and Charles and, in Henry’s case, his life itself.
That night, after we have brushed each other’s hair and prayed together, Mary and I share a bed for the first time in years – each aware, though we do not say it in so many words, of how suddenly we could be torn apart if we are sent away to marry.
‘If we become princesses,’ I whisper to Mary in the darkness, knowing from her breathing that she lies sleepless beside me, ‘then our value on the marriage market would soar into unimaginable heights. There would be no limit to who Father could wish us to marry.’ I should be excited at the prospect but instead I feel only fear. ‘What will happen to us?’ I ask, seeking Mary’s cold hand under the counterpane.
‘We will do what is asked of us,’ Mary replies quietly. ‘We will marry where we are told and play our part in furnishing the country with peace and prosperity.’
Though I hear her fine words, I also feel her shiver alongside me, her arm goosebumped against mine.
We find ourselves back in the Banqueting House the next day, 24 February, for the traditional ceremony to appoint a new ambassador. Philip Meadowes – Master John Milton’s former assistant in the Latin translation office and one of Thurloe’s protégés – is to lead an embassy to Denmark. His mandate is to further Father’s efforts to keep the peace between our Protestant cousins Denmark and Sweden and to secure our access to shipping supplies in the Baltic. It is a bold approach from Father; the kind of strong, decisive foreign policy of which Signor Giavarina would approve. Is England finally beginning to find its place in the world? Does Father’s renewed confidence suggest he may be contemplating becoming king?
I watch as Ambassador Meadowes accepts the commission gracefully, his right hand, still scarred from the gunfire aimed at him by an angry Portuguese on his last diplomatic mission, swept across his knee as he bows before Father’s dais. I tip my head to gaze at the Banqueting House’s astonishing ceiling, running my eyes lovingly over the twisting bodies, cherubs and flower garlands now so familiar to me. It is a bright, clear morning and pale sunlight streams through the vast windows to lay a parade of bright rectangles on the floor. The ladies and gentlemen of the court step in and out of the beams as they press closer to watch the ceremony, murmuring quietly to each other behind their hands.
Looking at them, I am surprised to feel more of their eyes upon me than ever before. Do I imagine the hungry glances of the young, single men of the court, thinking no doubt on the possible elevation of my status? These thoughts send my heart racing but I am pleased to be able to hide my disquiet in conversations on foreign affairs; discussions for which my recent conversation with Bulstrode Whitelocke and the Venetian secretary has prepared me well. I am just repeating Bulstrode’s anecdote about the former Queen Christina’s views on marriage to those gathered around me – Chaplain White and Katherine exchanging knowing glances – when Robert sidles up to join us.
‘Sir.’ I greet him, pulling my thoughts away from marriage. I haven’t seen him since the entertainment for Parliament ten days ago. The memory of the intimate conversation we shared then momentarily unnerves me and I wait with heightened anticipation to see which Robert Rich will speak to me now: the confidant or the courtier.
He smiles proudly at me, his lips curled as he sweeps into an elaborate bow. ‘Highness.’
So it is to be the courtier. I try not to show my disappointment.
Jeremiah and Katherine bow and move a little back to allow Robert and me our conversation and I am suddenly very aware of how our standing together must look to the rest of the room. I flutter my fan nervously though there is no need on a cool February morning.
‘What do you think of Master Meadowes’ embassy?’ I ask, my tone neutral as my eyes scan the room rather than meet his. ‘I think it a fine endeavour.’
‘A fine endeavour indeed,’ he agrees. ‘A noble and idealistic enterprise.’
‘By which you mean one that is doomed to failure,’ I reply stiffly, annoyed at his mocking tone and once more seeing criticism of my father hidden in his words.
‘Perhaps. It is not an easy role to play the peacemaker. To find peace through war – is that not your family motto?’
He is playing with me as ever. I turn my shoulder a little towards him but keep my eyes on the room, where they settle on my father as he talks closely with his new ambassador and Bulstrode Whitelocke, who is no doubt advising Meadowes on the views of the Swedish. ‘But, as I have reminded you before, sir,’ I say, picking my words with care like seashells from a pebbled beach, ‘ease alone should not be the determining qualification for action. My father and the Council with him are championing the Protestant cause in Europe and the cause of peace. Ease should not come into it.’
‘Of course you are right to chastise me,’ Robert says, inclining his head towards me, his hat swinging in his hand.
He is never still, it occurs to me, feeling every move of his beside me as if each changes the currents in the air itself.
‘But I merely wi
shed to enter a note of reality into the enterprise.’ He is continuing. ‘Your father has a lot of difficult choices to make: to support Denmark or Sweden? To side with royalist France or Catholic Spain? To work with or against our rivals the prosperous Dutch republic, now the most similar regime to our own? In each case, he must weigh religious alignment with commercial interests and balance England’s power abroad with her safety at home. As I understand it, the Council is divided on all of these questions and, under our constitution, they must agree to your father’s choices; he cannot simply do as he pleases as our previous kings could.’
I am pleasantly surprised to find that Robert shares my interest in foreign affairs and am struck by his astute analysis. Our previous kings … As I sift his words for meaning, my eyes glaze and my mind reaches back into the past, which it always longs to visit. Robert’s mention of the Council’s split opinion on our aligning with France or Spain calls to my mind our Tudor forebears who, only a few generations ago, wrestled here at Whitehall with exactly the same dilemma: King Henry famously played the two much mightier nations off against each other for most of his reign where his daughter, the bloody Mary, married into Spain – the famous Armada the terrifying legacy of this for her sister, brave Queen Elizabeth. These thoughts bring to mind another topic about which I have long wished an opportunity to remind Robert, though I doubt the subject often strays far from his thoughts:
‘You are indeed knowledgeable, sir.’ I smile politely. ‘I wonder you do not offer your expertise to my father, hitching the Rich horse to the Cromwell wagon as your ancestor did a century ago. Did not the lawyer Richard Rich, the founder of your noble house, secure his fortune by entering the service of my great-great-great uncle Thomas Cromwell, rising to the top of Henry VIII’s court on the hem of his cloak before betraying him on his downfall?’ It is perhaps a little cruel, but faced with his cool expression, I smart, remembering how much of myself I revealed to him the last time we spoke. Now it is my turn to remind him of the murky origins of his own noble heritage; justice of a sort for all his jibes about East Anglian farmers.
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