‘Now,’ she begins, turning to Mary. ‘Your father has mentioned to me a prospective match for you, Mary, and asked me to raise the matter with you.’
Mary stiffens in anticipation. I keep my hands still in my lap and wait.
‘Thomas Belasyse, Viscount Fauconberg.’
‘But the Belasyses are royalists!’ I cannot help exclaiming, snatching Mary’s right of first reaction as I spring to my feet. ‘The whole family fought for the king!’
‘True,’ Mother nods, her voice even. ‘But Viscount Fauconberg himself was too young to fight and you’ve seen how your father never considers a royalist background insurmountable for a man of talent. Look how he has promoted Lord Broghill – he was all set to cross the Channel to the exiled court before your father personally persuaded him against it. And the young Sir Charles Wolseley, who now sits on the Council of State despite his father fighting for the king. Besides,’ she looks from Mary to me and back again, ‘your father desires to make peace with the noble royalist families of the realm for the good of his Protectorate. Think what a great gesture of reconciliation such a marriage could be, how much good it could do.’
I fall silent then though my mind is racing. My feet strain to match my thoughts and so I begin to pace around the room, stopping by the window seat to follow Mother’s example and take off my shoes when I feel them rub. Although I struggle with the idea of Mary marrying into a royalist family, I cannot deny that a viscount is a higher class of husband than any that were offered to Bridget or Elizabeth – a reflection of our exalted status since they were on the marriage market – but Mary has never even met him. I glance upwards, almost expecting to see the crown that hovers over Father’s head, hovering there above us all. What was it Master Marvell had written about Father in his ode on the first anniversary of his rule? He ‘seems a king by long succession born’.
Mother is waiting for Mary to speak.
‘Thomas,’ she says quietly after a few moments, as if tasting the name of her proposed husband on her tongue. ‘What do you know of him, Mother?’
‘I know that he is of a noble house with a fair estate in Yorkshire,’ Mother replies, smiling reassuringly, ‘worth around five thousand pounds a year, I believe.’
I think of John Lambert and his flat Yorkshire vowels. It was he who governed that vast county as the regional Major-General until only a few months ago; I wonder what he will say when he hears of this proposed match with one of our enemies.
‘Yorkshire,’ Mary repeats dully, and I know she is thinking of the many hundreds of miles that lie between that rough part of the country and London; how very different its great hills and vales are said to be from the flat fenland pastures of our childhood; how fierce was the king’s stronghold in that sympathetic county until Parliament’s victory at the great battle of Marston Moor swept him from the north.
‘But do you know anything about him? His character, his temperament,’ I prompt, returning to the couch and dropping heavily onto the cushions.
Mother shifts a little beside me, the layers of her gown rustling.
‘I know only that he lost his wife last year and has since sought comfort in travelling on the Continent.’
‘A widower.’ Mary whispers the word to herself and I reach across Mother’s lap to take her hand.
‘That is not always a bad thing, Mary,’ I say, trying to convince myself as much as her. ‘Such men know what it is to take a wife and, more, what it means to lose one. They can value their second wives even more highly – look at Charles with Biddy.’
‘So he is not here at court.’ Mary continues her chain of thought from Mother’s words. ‘How is this negotiation occurring in that event?’
‘He is in Paris, I believe,’ Mother says. ‘Our ambassador, William Lockhart – your cousin Robina’s husband – is talking to him on your father’s behalf.’
‘William,’ Mary nods over his name.
‘I like William,’ I venture. ‘He will not do wrong by you.’
‘Your thoughts, my dear?’ Mother leans into Mary, tucking a loose ringlet behind her ear.
Mary loops her arms around her in response, dropping her head onto Mother’s shoulder. As I watch them, the relaxed intimacy of their gestures catapults me back to our ordinary life in our old home. It is so hard for us to live naturally and familiarly in our gilded cage, when every word of ours, every gesture is observed and examined for the proof it must be of our humble origins and lack of breeding. We are given no second chances – there is always someone waiting for us to fail, watching for us to slip and make fools of ourselves. And we do: I stoop to pick up something I have dropped when I should wait for a servant to do it; Mother slips into serving food and drink to others when she loses concentration; my brothers reach to open doors and bump into the guards whose job is to do it for them; Father draws disapproving stares when he bends down to build up a dying fire. It is even harder for us, I imagine, than the true-born royals who lived in these palaces before us, who were at least raised to know nothing else, who never encountered a door that was not opened for them, never fetched a toy or a book for themselves, never lit a fire or poured a drink, let alone cooked a meal. Who thought that being in a room full of servants was the same as being alone.
‘I will think on it, Mother,’ Mary replies. ‘You cannot expect me to say more when I have not met him.’
Mary looks across Mother to me and I smile at her in support.
‘Of course, darling, of course,’ Mother replies quickly, her voice relieved. ‘Think on it and I will try and find out more.’
We sit together, silent in our tableau, for the next few minutes while my mind spins off into its own orbit; I know it is only a matter of time before we have a mirrored conversation about me. And how will I answer? How can I answer while Robert Rich wants me for his own?
Returned to Whitehall, we find the atmosphere in the palace and the streets around it as tense as before. Spring has come upon us suddenly and the city bakes in a flush of unusual heat as blue tits nest in the topiary of the gardens and a pair of wrens raises a noisy brood in the ivy that climbs around my bedroom window. Mary and I long to escape into St James’s Park to see the carpet of primroses and the ducklings and goslings on the pond, but Secretary Thurloe will not let us leave the palace and so we content ourselves with sitting under the blossom in the orchard along the edge of the bowling green, reading and talking away the hours.
But the next day brings an end to our relaxation and reveals the reason for Thurloe’s restrictions. It is Dick who comes to find us in the orchard to deliver the news.
‘The Fifth Monarchists have risen up in great swarms to the east of the City,’ he says, his hands on his hips as he regains his breath before beckoning us to stand up. ‘You must return with me to our rooms, quickly.’
‘The Lord save us,’ Mary whispers as we scramble upright.
‘Is there any danger?’ I ask, wondering frantically where Robert is.
‘Not any more,’ Richard replies as he helps us gather up our things. ‘Thurloe knew what they had planned. His agents had infiltrated the rebels and so no sooner had they gathered on the green at Mile End at first light this morning than our troops arrested the ringleaders.’
‘Mile End,’ I repeat, thinking of an earlier time when men had massed on that green in protest – the peasants of Wat Tyler’s rebellion who had brought their brave demands to King Richard II. That had been a just rebellion concerned with freedom, as all such rebellions are. But today’s Fifth Monarchist rebels are no heroes, with their visions and violence and their frenzied calls for a government of the godly, elected by church congregations to rule by the strict text of the Bible alone, while awaiting the coming of Christ; I shiver at the thought of such a theocracy.
‘Where’s Father?’ Mary asks, alarmed, as we hurry through the privy garden.
‘Father wished to see the ringleaders – he has just finished with them. I was there, just before Mother found me and sent me lo
oking for you.’
‘And what did he say?’ I ask.
‘He heard them out of course and remonstrated with them. But you know what these madmen are like – theirs are the fixed convictions of zealots, set and unbreakable as mortar. They’ve gone to the Tower and Father has retreated to his study to brood.’
As soon as we reach the palace, I slip up the stairs into the stone gallery and go in search of Robert. I find him in the Great Court just outside the door to the wine cellar.
‘I thought I’d better check we had adequate supplies if we’re going to be besieged,’ he calls to me as he sees me approach.
‘I’m glad you find this amusing,’ I reply, straining to sound nonchalant even as my heart pounds.
He draws towards me before checking himself as group of courtiers stroll past. ‘It is only amusing so long as you are safe, my darling,’ he says, keeping his voice low. ‘Come, let me escort you back to your family’s apartments.’
‘So what do you think?’ I ask him as he ushers me up the staircase, past a doubled brace of guards, our fingertips brushing whenever we have a moment out of their sight. ‘Every time we face a threat, the government reacts in one of two ways. Will this uprising strengthen the army leaders’ call to restore direct military rule? Or will it be grist to the mill for the MPs pressing for Father’s kingship?’
‘You’re right,’ he replies and stops me at an empty corner to plant a quick kiss on my mouth. ‘This time, though, my money’s on the politicians.’
Robert’s wager is a sound one. Fired up with renewed fear about the stability of the realm, Parliament takes steps to break the deadlock over the issue of Father becoming king once and for all. And so it appoints a grand committee of one hundred MPs who, in turn, choose ten representatives to sit in conference with Father for as many days as it takes to hear and allay his reservations about taking the crown – Bulstrode Whitelocke, Lord Broghill and the brothers-in-law Councillors Nathaniel Fiennes and Charles Wolseley among their number.
John, who sits on the committee of one hundred, is equal parts hope and nerves each day that they sit; neither he nor Elizabeth makes any secret of their hope that the committee will persuade Father to become king.
‘This is our last chance,’ John says when he finds me with his wife in their rooms one afternoon picking out some of Betty’s older gowns for me to wear, now she is too big to fit into them. Shedding his boots, John drops theatrically onto the bed, Badger springing up after him and licking his face. ‘It’s the last chance for those of us in Parliament who oppose the army’s power to persuade your father in our direction. It will all hinge on the small committee’s skill at advocacy. But we picked well.’ He pushes past Badger’s muzzle to wag a finger in the air above his face. ‘We’ve packed it full of lawyers – the Lord Commissioners, Lord Chief Justice and Master of the Rolls – and Broghill is as smooth a politician as you’ll ever hear.’
‘You’ve done your best, John,’ Elizabeth says, holding the last dress of pale green satin against her swelling stomach before tossing it to me with a tut. ‘And I will try and speak to Father again.’
‘I do not see how even you can change his mind, Betty,’ I say, gathering the pile of dresses from the chair and pressing them into Katherine’s hands for alteration. ‘Did you not hear him at supper last night? He made it clear that the title of king is the stumbling block for him and said he didn’t see how, if he rejects that, he can accept the rest of the proposed settlement, even though that was exactly what Charles was urging him to do. Though really that was just Charles trying to find a compromise, I thought. I doubt Lambert would tolerate any part of the new constitution when it is aimed so clearly at lessening the army’s say in government.’
‘If anyone can persuade Oliver, our men can,’ John says, pushing Badger off him and sitting up on the bed just in time for his eldest son Cromwell to scurry into the room and hurl himself into his father’s arms, his governess trailing in his wake. ‘The lawyers especially. You should hear them when they’re in full flow.’ John opens Cromwell’s clenched palm and counts on his chubby fingers as the boy squeals with delight. ‘They argue that the name and office of king have been known in England for a thousand years; that it is bound inextricably into all of our laws and customs; that men know their rights under it and the limits of the king’s prerogative too where the Lord Protector’s power is unbridled. And so on and so on …’
Bridget, when she hears John give this same speech later at supper, scoffs at so many words spent on ‘a bauble, a mere feather in the cap’ as she dismisses the title of king. ‘It is an unworthy obsession of men which God has smashed into the dust.’
‘Why not let him accept it then?’ Elizabeth counters, her tone as ever resembling a calm sea, whatever the rockiness of her words beneath. ‘If it matters so little, sister, what then is the fuss?’
Hearing my two oldest sisters speak one after the other I notice the slight East Anglian burr of their accents: testament to the fact that when I moved to London at eight years old – still with time to lose my country vowels – they were already grown-up married women set fast in the ways of the fens. Bridget does not reply and, as I watch, I see the terrain of a much-fought battle mapped in the looks they exchange. Though they are as different in turn as their husbands are from each other, I know Biddy and Betty can read each other’s minds as easily as Mary and I can.
‘I know they love each other but I am so grateful we never argue like that,’ I say later that night as I stand in my nightdress and gown combing Mary’s hair. ‘It must be so tiring. But what if Father makes you marry the royalist viscount? You’d disagree on everything.’
Mary frowns as I tackle a knot in her curls. ‘I doubt it would be as bad as that,’ she says, though I fancy more in hope than certainty. ‘Besides, he may lose interest in the match if Father rejects the crown.’
‘And if Father takes the crown, he may find a great royalist noble for me too. It’s funny,’ I muse, lulled by the rhythm of my brush strokes as Mary’s hair begins to shine. ‘A few years ago I would have been thrilled at the idea of becoming Princess Frances. But now, I wish nothing more than to lose all credit in the marriage market and marry the man I choose.’
Mary smiles at me in the mirror and I drop a kiss onto her head before placing the comb in her hand and absently picking up a bottle of scent to smell it. I expect her to relinquish the stool to me as it is my turn to be combed but she does not move. Instead, as I watch, her face contorts in pain and she clutches her stomach. Slowly she rises from the stool and I watch a tiny spot of blood appear at the back of her nightdress.
‘Oooh.’ I grimace in sympathy and put my arms gently about her, leading her towards the bed. ‘Wait there, dearest. I’ll find your rags and send Anne down to the kitchens for some hot peppermint water.’
Mary keeps to her bed for the next few days and so I wander about the palace trying to pick up news from the committee meetings to take back to her. If nothing else, it is clear to me that what flows underneath all of the MPs’ arguments is their lingering distrust of the army. Father’s loyalty to the soldiers is the sticking point.
The young Councillor and member of the MPs’ committee Sir Charles Wolseley confides as much to me when I come across him outside the chapel after prayers one morning. Finding ourselves crossing the courtyard together, we fall into a companionable step and I seize the moment to ask him how the committee meetings progress.
‘Not as well as I would hope, Highness,’ he replies as he fixes his stylish peacock-feathered hat back on his head. ‘For every time we press upon him that Parliament represents the will of the people on this matter your father, despite the nods of his head which show his appreciation of this fact, talks instead of the army; the honest and faithful men who took up arms with him against the king for the liberty of the people. He says they would struggle to accept any political settlement with the title of king in it.’
I know this a sore subject for Wolseley as
he is not well loved by the army leaders. Wolseley’s father fought for the king and Wolseley himself might have done too had he not been too young to take up arms. He only sits on Father’s Council now because he made a shrewd marriage to the daughter of the parliamentarian grandee William Fiennes, Viscount Saye and Sele, and his new brother-in-law Nathaniel Fiennes smoothed the way for Wolseley to join him on the Council, seizing his chance to import another moderate ally who would strengthen his side against the Major-Generals. They, for their part, scoff and jeer at the young man for having done nothing to advance the Good Old Cause and earn his place at the table – ‘that fool,’ my brother-in-law Charles Fleetwood tuts whenever Wolseley’s name is mentioned in our private family conversations, ‘what does he know?’
‘We see this as a matter of constitutional law and political sovereignty where the people’s mandate is clear,’ Wolseley continues, pausing to turn to me and search my face, ‘but your father sees it as a question of conscience that only he and God can answer. It is impossible.’
I tilt my head in sympathy. ‘Truly we all struggle with that side of my father, Sir Charles. When he is locked in conversation with God, none can get a word in between them.’
The young courtier gives me a weary smile in gratitude before hurrying off to join his colleagues as they prepare for yet another committee session with Father. Watching him go, I wish not for the first time that I could join him in those meetings and see my future ebb and flow for myself.
Thinking of Robert, my nerves hovering somewhere at the edges of my body, I decide to go in search of him. Miraculously, I find him walking alone in the stone gallery as the rest of the court sleeps off a heavy dinner in the warm spring afternoon. Falling upon me, Robert pulls me into the darkened recess of a latticed window and kisses me, hardly pausing for breath as he covers my skin and lips with his.
The Puritan Princess Page 13