The Puritan Princess

by Miranda Malins

  I am turning back towards him to reply when Father’s voice rings out over the group.

  ‘Frances, Mary?’ Father is looking for us over his shoulder. ‘Come and join me.’

  I glance at Robert who sets his lips as if to say I told you so. Leaving him behind, I weave my horse towards Father, hastily gathering my thoughts and quieting my feelings. As I approach, I incline my head to the strong-jawed, romantic figure of General John Lambert mounted beside Father. My nerves increase: of all Father’s colleagues and friends, it is Lambert who leaves me the most tongue-tied. He is a living legend of the age: the hero of Parliament’s victorious Scottish campaign and a passionate military genius beloved of his men; the sharp mind that drafted the Instrument of Government – the constitution which made Father Lord Protector; the most eminent politician at court and a powerful member of the Council; and, of all others, the nearest to Father in greatness. Is it any wonder that John Claypole raised Lambert’s name when we discussed Father’s possible heir the other evening?

  Still, I am surprised to see Lambert so close to Father when the whole court knows that it is he who leads the army’s opposition to Father becoming king. He will certainly have his old friend’s ear today.

  As I draw level with them, I see that Father’s falcon has returned to his glove, where it tears into the flesh of a wood pigeon pinioned between its talons. Mary appears on his other side, as elegant and natural in the saddle as ever.

  ‘Tell me, upon what subject was young Robert Rich entertaining you?’ Father asks, keeping his tone even and his eyes on his bird.

  My mind races. ‘On the subject of dreams, Father.’

  ‘Ha!’ he scoffs. ‘I dare say he is a dreamer, that one. Not like you and I, eh, Johnny?’ Father looks to Lambert for agreement and the general nods solemnly. ‘No. We leave the dreaming to other men,’ Father goes on, ‘men like Thomas Rainsborough, who dreamed of a world where all men could vote and who paid for it by taking an assassin’s bullet; Henry Ireton, who dreamed of a godly, prosperous Commonwealth where all men were equal under the law, and paid for it in fevered blood to leave your sister a widow.’

  His eyes glaze over a little and I breathe again as I feel his attention wandering away from Robert. I glance across at Mary, who gives me a private smile of encouragement.

  ‘It is the practical men who win wars.’ Lambert takes up Father’s theme. ‘Men who can see straight. Men of action, of pupose.’

  ‘Very true,’ Father nods, ‘though I do like to have a few dreamers about me. They tell me how the world should be and I work out how we can get there with God’s help. Their dreams and my realities; their thoughts and my deeds. That’s how we won the war, that’s how we will build the future. It is the destination that matters, not the route we take, yet someone has to bring a map.’

  Father stops his horse suddenly and beckons to the falconer. ‘Here, Sam, come and take the bird. Frances – take your turn with the merlin now and then we’ll see what Mary can do. My dear John,’ Father addresses Lambert affectionately, ‘prepare for instruction; my daughters are fearless with the hawks and Mary, my second youngest here, is a natural.’

  Lambert turns his gun-metal eyes first onto Mary and then onto me. Mary glows with pride and I feel a stab of envy: I have never been able to match her at outdoor pursuits. I really should practise more.

  ‘Is it true that Harry is sourcing some more hawks for you, Father?’ I ask. ‘If so, perhaps he might send a bird for me? I might practise more with my own bird.’

  ‘Aye,’ Father replies, grinning at me. ‘Harry tells me the best birds are to be found on the far west coast of Ireland and so I have told him to find me a goshawk. You write to him; ask him to track down a little ladies’ bird for you too.’

  ‘Ireland you say, Oliver?’ Lambert interrupts us, his words flat in the accent of his native Yorkshire, his tone playfully challenging. ‘I doubt you’ll find a better bird there than you will in the western highlands of Scotland. George Monck is taking a little time out from commanding our army there to procure me some falcons. We have a nice little import business planned.’

  Father draws himself up in his saddle, his eyes flashing. ‘Do you now? I’ll tell you what, John. When we get our hands on the birds, we’ll fly them together. Have a little friendly competition before the court – what do you say?’

  Lambert nods in agreement and his horse whinnies as the two most powerful men in the country square up against each other.

  It is my turn to fly a bird and my pulse quickens with nervous excitement as Father’s avenor laces the long padded glove to my left arm and hands me my merlin. As always I am surprised by her weight and mesmerised by her gaze as she swivels her small striped head left and right, pausing briefly on my face in the middle of each panoramic look. Carefully I unhook her string and raise my arm as a branch, feeling the instant aftershock as she launches herself powerfully into the air in the direction of the beech trees ahead.

  I scan for her return, my eyes darting and roving the treeline before, on a high whistle from the falconer, she swoops back to me, a lark in her claws. When she is safely restored to my arm, I look away politely as if to afford her some privacy for her meal. But really, I have a weak stomach for these moments of the sport. Still, the joy I feel as time after time she wings away from me high into the air, always returning like a thunderbolt, recompenses me a thousand fold. I will write to Harry and see if he can find me a bird of my own.

  ‘I compliment you, Your Highness,’ Lambert says generously, pausing his horse while I return my bird to the avenor who takes it over to Mary. Continuing through the park, we watch as Mary flies the merlin over our heads to the trees.

  ‘Thank you, General. Your own flying was most impressive.’

  I glance sideways at his profile – the long, arched nose, the silver-grey tinges in his hair and sleek neck putting me in mind of a greyhound. Now Father has wandered a little away to talk to Dick, I wonder if Lambert will speak to me again.

  ‘Your father and I used to enjoy hawking on campaign in Scotland,’ he says at length. ‘We saw a golden eagle once; an extraordinary creature.’

  ‘How wonderful,’ I reply, genuinely thrilled by the idea. ‘And a most welcome respite I am sure from the hard fighting you saw there.’

  ‘True,’ he nods in rhythm with his horse’s head. ‘It was a gruelling time. But I had become accustomed to it by then; I had been in arms for nine years, as had your father.’

  Nine years – at eighteen, that is half of my life that Lambert had spent in the saddle and at war. The scale of the conflict that raged while I was a child still has the power to shock me. We owe the men who triumphed lasting gratitude, I think, not for the first time. And who am I – and cosseted courtiers like me – to question the wisdom of such proven giants? ‘Nine years,’ I repeat. ‘No wonder, General, that you, that Father and all who served with you, feel such loyalty to your army.’

  He is pleased with my remark and rewards me with a thin smile.

  ‘I do, Your Highness. When you have seen as much blood shed on English and Scottish soil as I have, you cannot help but believe as I do – will always do – that the men who won the war deserve a powerful voice in government. The army’s interest must be protected against those who would betray it to further their own.’

  It is clear that he refers to those Members of Parliament and his fellow Councillors who are pressing the new civilian constitution to replace his military Instrument of Government; the men like Bulstrode Whitelocke, Nathaniel Fiennes and his young brother-in-law Charles Wolseley, General-at-Sea Edward Montagu and Lord Broghill, whom Harry had mentioned in his last letter, my own brother-in-law John Claypole (and, I suspect, Secretary Thurloe) who seek to settle Father as king, presiding over a traditional government not in thrall to the army.

  Is Lambert after his own power? Does he desire to become Lord Protector when Father dies, to lead a more martial government once the advocates of kingship have been def
eated? If there is a void in power, I can think of none better placed to ride into it. Yet I am not sure. Lambert’s heart is still on the battlefield, that much is clear to me. And looking at him now, his stern grey eyes fixed on the merlin soaring against the horizon, I cannot help but feel some sympathy.

  We have just finished our midday meal in the Great Hall when a fierce commotion erupts in the passageway outside. Secretary Thurloe slides between the long tables to approach us, his manner apologetic.

  ‘It is these Quakers again, Highness, come to complain about a new play which is being performed in London. I have summoned the playwright, imagining you would wish to hear both sides of the business.’

  ‘You know me well indeed, John,’ Father smiles. ‘I’ll hear them now – let them approach.’

  A gaggle of wagging tongues presses forward towards our table, though they fall silent when they reach the dais. I watch the scene eagerly.

  ‘Master Fox,’ Father warmly addresses a young man in sombre clothes, ‘and Mistress Fell, I believe. Welcome back to court.’

  There are a few hissed intakes of breath around the room; I know many think Father too lenient towards these notorious radical trouble-makers. But Father has told me before that these new Quakers are men and women of God just as we are and that he will let them be as long as they live peaceably. ‘If it was such a trial for King Charles to be Defender of the one Faith,’ he said, ‘remember I have a thousand faiths to protect.’ I know that liberty of conscience and toleration of all faiths that cause no sedition are the foundations of his beliefs: he had admitted the Jews to England once more, after all. And I admire him for it. But I for one dislike the ranting disapproval of these Quakers and would give them less time than he does.

  ‘I enjoyed our last debate,’ Father is saying now, clearly relishing the fight to come. ‘On what subject would you beg my ear today?’

  George Fox thrusts himself forward, his broad hat fixed resolutely on his head as is the way of his people. ‘On the subject of a disgraceful stage-play which is even now corrupting the good people of London and turning the city into a Sodom and Gomorrah,’ the Quaker says.

  ‘In contravention of Parliament’s long-standing ban of the theatres,’ Mistress Fell adds with a vigorous nodding, her large white collar bright against her black dress.

  ‘Ah. And the playwright?’

  ‘Here, Highness.’ A pug-faced man of middle age dips into a bow, his feathered hat sweeping the floor. ‘William Davenant at your service.’

  ‘What say you, sir?’

  ‘I say, Highness, that there is much of moral worth in what I have written …’

  ‘Pah,’ Mistress Fell interrupts. ‘Poison! That is what it is, dripped into the ears of the weak and unknowing.’

  I cannot help admiring her fortitude, however much I dislike her views. It is wonderful to see a fearless woman speak her mind so publicly.

  ‘Have you been to see the performance, madam?’ Master Davenant counters. ‘It concerns the Siege of Rhodes and is a sober and worthy piece, not a bawdy farce.’

  George Fox leans across his companion protectively, shaking as he gesticulates. ‘She would not set foot in a theatre, sir, for fear of what she might tread in.’

  ‘Peace, peace,’ Father says, holding up his hands. He moistens his lips and sits back in his chair while we all await his words.

  ‘On the question of entertainment, I will tell you what I believe,’ he begins at length. ‘I do not hold with music in church: it distracts from the true and honest word of God and smacks of popery. Neither do I hold with the playhouses – Parliament was right to close them, for lascivious plays often lead to sinful thoughts and the theatres had become centres of drunken, violent rabble-rousing and rebellious royalist assembly. That was the issue with horse races too, though I myself am fond of the turf. Gambling now I cannot abide for its corruption of good men. But, I am not a saint and nor do I expect others to be: a man has appetites and must take his leisure and seek out beauty where he can. Moderation is the watchword. There is much to admire in the craftsmanship of fine paintings, tapestries and statues. The pursuit of sports gives men vigour and exercise. A little dancing, done with decorum, does no harm; neither do a few glasses of wine. And music in its proper place – out of the churches – performed with skill, elegance and virtuosity is for me the highest form of art.’

  I smile. Even if I would wish a little more gaiety in life than my father and a few more opportunities for harmless transgression to teach me the ways of the world for myself, I cannot fault his moderate views or their mild expression. I look over to where the Major-Generals sit together – Lambert flanked by Charles and Uncle Desborough with some of the other officers about them – and wonder if they heard what I had in Father’s speech: a subtle shift away from the hard Puritanism they had imposed when they ruled the counties. For with each passing day, I feel the regime softening and settling around me as the power drains from the army leaders and flows towards their civilian rivals. Surely Father would welcome the chance to return England to the ‘gentler, nobler time’ he spoke to me of earlier? And what would be the easiest way for him to turn back the clock? I think as I shift my gaze back to him. To become king and repair the line that had stretched unbroken back to Athelstan.

  Master Davenant places a lace-cuffed hand over his heart. ‘I agree, Highness, and that is precisely what I aim at … this is a new form of drama, an “opera” which is sung rather than acted.’

  ‘Ha.’ Again Mistress Fell snorts her derision but Father holds up a hand to stop her continuing.

  ‘So it is a piece of stage music?’ he asks. ‘And the story then, the moral – is it a good one?’

  ‘Yes indeed, sire. It is an account of the famous battle and aims to educate the listener as much as enthral him.’

  I watch Father carefully, seeing his brain working as he nods his heavy head. ‘And you would like to write more such “operas”, Master Playwright? What is your next subject to be?’

  ‘I plan an opera concerning the cruelty of the Spaniards in Peru, Highness.’

  Father gives a great burst of laughter. ‘Ha! You would like that, Charles.’ He gestures along the table to my brother-in-law and his mirth has a lightening effect on the whole room. ‘Well, that sounds like a fine subject for you, Master Davenant,’ he continues. ‘I wish you well. Parliament may go its own way of course and my friends here,’ he nods politely to the Quaker pair, ‘have spoken in good faith and shown you that there are many godlier than I who will disapprove of your works. But I for one will not stop you. Come.’ Father rises to his feet then. ‘Let me show you the great organ I had installed over there; I’ll have Master Hingston and his boys sing for you and I’ll challenge you not to think them the finest trebles in the country.’

  Father puts an arm around William Davenant’s shoulders and leads him away a few steps before looking back at the Quakers. ‘And Master Fox, Mistress Fell, I hope you will stay a while too, share some of your beliefs with me. I am certain that if you and I were but an hour together we should come nearer one another.’

  As I watch them go, I think that this is what I love most about Father: his charm, his kindness. His humour and tendency to see the fun in things. I love his ability to soothe and reconcile the irritated, his open mind and willingness to see other points of view and admit his own mistakes. His gift for seeing the best in people, for spotting talent wherever it grows, for reading minds and forgiving what he finds there. And so he goes on: always listening, always balancing. A king in waiting.

  After this excitement, we spend the rest of the day closed up in our private apartments with Master Marvell, whom Father has engaged to instruct us in foreign tongues. While these lessons aim to brush up our Latin and Greek, they place much emphasis on our understanding of French which – as the language of diplomacy and of our new allies – Father now considers essential that we master. As deputy to the brilliant, blind John Milton in the Latin secretariat, tasked with tra
nslating the government’s documents and correspondence and being his master’s eyes, Andrew Marvell is a suitable choice to undertake our instruction. He is also the court’s foremost poet and so a person of great romance and glamour to Mary and me. At our coming to the court three years ago, the darkly handsome Marvell was the first man whose name we whispered together at night and whose entrance into a room prompted a flurry of elbow poking. He no longer provokes such a girlish response in us, but the legacy of the first, chaste affection we felt for him lingers in us both in secret, smiling pleasure.

  In my case, the pleasure of Master Marvell’s company is matched by my love of the study itself and I pore over my scratched translations with relish, making tiny correcting marks in the margins. Mary – always of a less studious bent than me – keeps up but is never the one to set our pace. And so, when Mother comes in to us at the end of the lesson, it is me who thrusts my best work into her hands while Mary packs away her things and smooths her skirts, thinking, no doubt, of how soon she can escape out to the stables. It is a comfort somehow to feel myself slipping back into the simplicity of girlhood in this way, chewing my lip as I wait for Mother’s verdict. But truly I exist in both worlds. For when Mother has given me all the praise I wanted and declares that her true reason for coming is to speak to Mary about a private matter, I feel myself dragged forward into adulthood once more.

  For I know what this means. My glance at Mary prompts her to ask that I too be party to the conversation; we both know that we will be stronger together in any talks about our marriage prospects.

  Turning to Master Marvell, Mother bids him withdraw with her thanks and, having laid down a book, our handsome tutor backs from the room. She turns to the pageboys next and motions for them to leave us too and we watch as they bob and bustle through the doors. She waits, perfectly still and grand, until we are entirely alone, and then sighs, relaxing her shoulders and gathering us to her with a loud kiss each. Slipping out of her embroidered shoes, Mother draws us down to sit either side of her, the many stiff silk layers of her skirts puffing over our laps and the pearl drops at her ears and corset wobbling as she sinks onto the couch.