And so, all I can do is try to speak the truth as I see it in front of me.
‘You can think on what happened to Caesar,’ I say, directing our gazes back up to the canvas. ‘Here he is at the height of his power and popularity: the conqueror of Gaul, the subduer of thousands. But you see the crown above his head – the shadow of his fate hangs over him. The people sought to make him king but there were those who thought him overmighty. And it was Caesar’s own friends who pulled their daggers upon him and laid him down in the blood and dust of the Senate, all in the name of safeguarding the republic.’
‘His own friends,’ Father repeats, and I know he is thinking of his son-in-law Charles, of John Lambert and Uncle Desborough.
‘But what end did their noble treachery serve?’ I say, anxious not to cast my arguments too heavily on one side. ‘Preventing Caesar from becoming king may have stopped his tyranny but it led to civil war and the emergence of an emperor who took even more power for himself than Caesar.’ I shake my head in confusion: is this to be the fate of Charles Fleetwood and the other army generals if they move against Father? To be the fools of history who pave the way for another to abuse his power? A Major-General Fleetwood? A Lord Protector Lambert? Or even a King Charles II?
I am so lost in my own thoughts I am surprised when Father voices a reply.
‘I see you play an advocate for the devil, my dear, laying choices and consequences before me, countering my thoughts whichever way they turn.’ He smiles, his face drooping with tiredness. ‘But that is good, that is what I need.’ Letting go of my hand, he takes a few steps away from me then, pacing back and forth in front of the panorama, his gaze now dropped to the floor in thought.
I know to wait; he is forming his next thoughts.
Father comes to a halt beside me. ‘Some have called me Caesar, did you know that? Others Brutus. Did I wield the knife? Or am I destined to fall beneath it?’ He sighs and lifts his head once more to the scene. ‘But there is a difference. It is the extent of the power itself which was at issue there,’ he says, crossing his arms over his nightshirt in contemplation. ‘Where, in our case, I believe the principal objection of the army – and indeed in my own heart – is to the title of king, not to its office. It is the word “king” that sticks so in our throats when we ourselves witnessed how God laid the title of king in the dust under our feet. I cannot build Jericho again when Jehovah himself has blown the walls down.’
As always, Father returns his thoughts from men to God, where I struggle to follow. I hate it when he turns from our family to God. Why can’t we be the last layer of his skin, why can’t I – here, now – be the lone voice of comfort in the night? But it is God, not us, whom Father clings to; it has always been. The Lord is his true soulmate and I envy God in that relationship, not Father. I know it is un-Christian, even sinful, but sometimes I resent God for all the torturing He does to Father: for the temper He stirs up, the dark moods He casts, the doubt He sows in the heart of His most loyal of all servants. I blame Him for the danger He has led my father into, the battles He has had him fight, the friends He has forced him to lose, the long dark nights of the soul like this one. Yes, God gives Father love, but so do we all and we don’t ask for his suffering in return.
Here lies the greatest distance between us, the great darkness in his character which I fear above all others: the voice of God in his head. I fear both the decisions Father makes in haste and those he takes too long over at God’s behest. The way God turns the pragmatist I know into the idealist I do not, forcing him into entrenched positions that cost him friendships; the brave decisions that turn him away from the easiest path and fuel his enemies’ rage. And now that rage threatens us all – it points a musket from a crowd and plants a bomb in our home.
I can say none of this to Father of course; there is no answer I can give at all. But none is needed as Father continues his train of thought almost at once.
‘Yet this is what Parliament would have me do. This is what most of my Council would have me do. This is what they tell me the people want, and I am fully persuaded of it; I myself have always believed a constitutionally limited monarchy to be the best form of government. They all tell me this is the only way to lasting peace and security, and who am I to deny that to these nations? Besides,’ his voice drops to a whisper as if he speaks now only to himself, ‘if I were king I could force Parliament to be more tolerant to many faiths; we would have no more martyrs, no more so-called heretics I could not save from punishment. You remember the case of James Nayler? Yes, vaguely? He was Lambert’s quartermaster in the war, before he joined the Quakers. Anyway, I won’t bore you with the details, but suffice to say, Parliament saw blasphemy in a man riding a horse into Bristol to re-enact Christ’s entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday. The Presbyterian MPs used the case to say that my policy of toleration had opened the country to the Quaker threat. They convicted Nayler, lashed, bored and branded him, and I could do nothing about it.’
It is a disgusting image which plunges us both into silent darkness. But after a few moments, Father jolts as if started out of a reverie and pivots back towards me, uncrossing his arms and clasping his hands instead behind his back.
‘And did Caesar have a daughter? What of her?’
I chuckle at that, recognising the new dance as he leads me into it. ‘I don’t know, I’m afraid, Father, we have reached the end of my knowledge of Plutarch. You’ll have to ask Master Milton or Master Marvell.’
‘I will,’ he chuckles in mirrored reflection of me, ‘I will pay a visit to the Latin secretariat office first thing in the morning and ask them. Let’s hope they’re at their desks: that will put the cat among the pigeons otherwise!’ But then his face shades once more with serious thought. ‘And you, my dearest. What place for you in all this? A queen to young Charles Stuart perhaps?’
I catch my breath, held in his appraising look like a deer stunned by the approaching hounds. I try to wipe all thoughts from my head, aware of his uncanny power of mind-reading. Robert’s name pushes on the tip of my tongue, bursting to escape, but Father sweeps it aside, smiling again as suddenly as the sun escaping a cloud on a drizzling, dappled day.
‘I tease you, my dear, though I shouldn’t. It is no laughing matter. It is only fair to tell you now, before events tumble away from us still further, that I do not look kindly on such a match. I hardly think it practicable, after all that passed between the dead king and us, for his son and I to unite our families. Even if I could countenance it, I cannot believe that he would. But, more than that, I could not paint myself such a hypocrite in your eyes.’
‘A hypocrite, Father?’ I cannot imagine what he means.
‘Didn’t I say you were not to marry young Robert Rich for his looseness of character?’
I swallow though my throat is dry. ‘You did, Father, though you know my hopes that you will change your mind.’
He pretends not to hear me and continues his own train of thought. ‘I could hardly say no to Robert Rich and then give you away to the most debauched man in Europe purely for my own political gain. It is not that I am one of those fathers who thinks no men are good enough for his daughters – I took Henry Ireton, John and Charles into my heart. But I do set high standards for your happiness, and no prince, whatever his royal blood, may have my girl if he is not worthy of her.’
He leans forward and kisses my forehead. ‘Off to bed now.’
Dazed, I turn and drag my feet away from him along the gallery under Caesar’s eternal gaze, hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry.
I wonder thereafter if our midnight conversation has had any effect on Father. I certainly sense a change in the air when we return to Whitehall a few days later as the kingship party, cast so low only a week before, walk around the palace with renewed confidence. Secretary Thurloe has lost some of the grey circles under his eyes and John is positively beaming.
‘It is won,’ he whispers to Mary and me as he leads us into dinner on Wednesday. ‘Your
father has told Thurloe and some of the others privately that he intends to accept the constitution – the title of king and all. He has summoned Parliament to meet him tomorrow at Westminster where he will announce it!’
I must see Robert and so I prevail upon John, who has always had a soft spot for me, to invite him to join the three of us for a game of bowls in the afternoon. He raises a questioning eyebrow but doesn’t refuse me – I suspect Betty has shared my feelings with him. And so, a few hours later I find myself standing on the bowling green concentrating every effort not to reach out and take Robert’s hand. As we watch, Mary retakes a shot under John’s interfering direction, his dog Badger worrying at his heels to get at the ball. It is Robert’s turn next and I cannot help narrowing my eyes as he aims a perfect strike against my ball, shunting it far across the green to leave his own ball beautifully in line with the jack.
‘Oh, really,’ I exclaim in exasperation.
‘My apologies, Lady Frances. But you would not have me do you the discourtesy of playing any less firmly against you as I do your brother-in-law.’
‘Of course not,’ I say quickly; as the youngest in the family, nothing infuriates me more than being allowed to win at any game. Has Robert already learned this about me?
He bows to me, winking under his hat. ‘But neither would I do you the discourtesy of allowing you to retrieve your ball alone. Let me escort you to the far side of the green.’
I see his true game now and try to hide my smile as I take his proffered arm. As soon as we are out of earshot of the others he leans in to me as if to speak but really kisses my ear, the action needed hidden from their view by his hat.
‘Darling,’ he whispers, rubbing his shoulder against mine as we walk in step. ‘How I long to be alone with you.’
My heart hammers in my chest and I replay each delicious word in my head to fix it there for later. ‘I too, Robert, more than anything else.’ I breathe in his spiced scent with its hints of oranges and tobacco leaves and feel my stomach drop down through my body, such is the strength of my desire for him. We reach the ball and I turn to face him, willing my eyes to absorb every inch of him as soap onto a sponge.
He takes a step closer to me. ‘I know exactly what I will do when I have you alone; where I would kiss you first. Where next. And after that …’ His voice drops lower and lower as his eyes rake over me and my whole body hums like a bee before a bright flower.
Reluctantly I put up my hand to stop him. ‘Listen, we don’t have long. I must tell you Father is against the match with Charles Stuart.’
His face breaks open into a bright smile. ‘Thank God. Well, I can count myself in good company then on your father’s list of rejected suitors.’
I cannot help but laugh at that even though the sound that escapes my throat is tightened with pain.
Robert draws another step closer to me, his face serious again. ‘You remember what we pledged to do that night in the Banqueting House when you stole my heart. We pledged to fight for our freedom, to put everything we had on the line. This is the moment to do it; we have no time to waste. We must work on your father, find a way to change his mind about me. It will not be long before he has lined up another husband for you.’
‘And there’s more,’ I say, drawing him back towards Mary and John, conscious of how long we have been standing alone in full view. ‘John says Father has made up his mind to take the crown.’
My eyes are ahead of me but I hear Robert take in a sharp breath.
‘God’s blood. So it is to be Princess Frances after all; first prize on the marriage market of Europe. Then we have even less time – we must change his mind about us now. Where is he?’
‘He is walking in St James’s Park, I believe,’ I say.
‘Then we must go and find him, tell him of our love – throw ourselves on his mercy.’
I shrink back from him, caught by a sudden fear. ‘We can’t!’
‘We must. He loves you. If he saw how I feel about you, heard how I will work to make you happy. Learned what I have already done to mend my ways: abandoning the pleasure-seeking of my youth, taking on more responsibility for the family estates from Grandfather. Convincing my grandparents that I am worthy of you, that they will not lose their hard-earned credit with your father by pleading my case.’
I long simply to enjoy his words but I can’t when they may turn out to be mere castles in the air. I look over to Mary, who is watching us anxiously, shielding her eyes from the afternoon sun, John talking idly beside her. Robert slips his arm behind me and squeezes my waist in reassurance. Joined together – just for a moment – I feel a shaft of steel within me. ‘Very well. Mary!’ I call to her as we approach. ‘I tire of bowls and I am so far behind you all now. Why don’t we walk over to the park? John, you’ll join us?’
‘Really?’ John looks up at the sky where the sun has already dropped to graze the top of the tennis court building. ‘But I simply can’t waste all afternoon,’ he says but then Badger, who heard nothing but the word ‘walk’, bounds after us. ‘Oh, all right then.’ John follows with unconvincing reluctance. ‘Just a short walk.’
Leaving our bowling balls where they are, we cross to the west end of the green and slip through the gate, past the guards and into King Street, our ladies-in-waiting trailing behind us. A short walk takes us past the tennis court building and around the Cockpit, where we lived for the last few years before Father became Lord Protector. Just beyond that, another gate brings us out into the lush green expanse of the park shimmering in the May sunshine. Almost immediately I see Father a little way ahead of us on the wide tree-lined gravel path, his guards fanned out behind him. He is standing quite still, his grey cloaked back towards us, head bowed, one elbow jutting out from it above a hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Two men are talking urgently to him and something in the scene makes me pause. I put out a hand to stop Robert from continuing further.
‘John, Mary, wait.’
We stop and John curses under his breath.
‘God’s teeth. That’s Desborough and Charles with him; they’re talking him out of it!’
Glancing sideways, I see a flash of hope in Robert’s eyes, in stark contrast to the despair written on John’s face.
We watch, uncertain what to do, just out of earshot but not daring to approach any closer. Charles has seen us but carries on talking regardless and we hang back respectfully, each of us trying not to show how we strain to hear the words. But it is no use, Charles and Uncle Desborough are standing too close to Father for us to hear, though their frantic gestures and the way Father’s head hangs, his eyes on the gravel, tell us all we need to know.
‘We must stop it,’ John says, straining forward from us, glowering at Charles. ‘They know how to work upon him and he’s facing them alone, not even Thurloe with him.’
‘No, John,’ Robert says, gripping his arm. ‘Leave them be. I’ll take you back, my ladies,’ he says softly, taking Mary and I on either arm and turning us back to the palace, a flock of startled pigeons fluttering up into the air from the path ahead.
On the following day, to everyone’s shock Father cancels his meeting with Parliament at the last possible moment. Instead, once again he locks himself in with its committee all evening before the news filters out that he will meet the members of Parliament the next day, only now the venue is the Banqueting House, not Westminster. This time, no one dares to guess what he will answer and even Secretary Thurloe appears to be in the dark. Mother will not talk to us of it and she and Father retire to bed early with instructions not to be disturbed.
The next day dawns bright but clouded and a sudden shower of rain in the late morning hurries the MPs as they swarm along Whitehall and into the Banqueting House. Seeing their approach from our private gallery, I hurry along the passage to tell Mother, who instructs Anthony Underwood, who is waiting upon her to escort us all to the House. And so it is that Mother, Mary, Elizabeth and I enter the room grandly, taking our seats just to the s
ide of the dais. Scanning the room, I see Bridget standing at the back. I wave to her, catching her eye and gesturing for her to come and sit beside me; but she gives the slightest shake of her head and turns instead to speak to our brother Richard, who is milling among his fellow MPs, clearly believing his place to be with them for this announcement rather than with us. I look for Robert’s auburn head in the crowd before remembering that he – as neither an MP, nor a member of our family, Councillor or chief officer of the court – will not be there. I imagine him waiting in a passageway nearby with the broadsheet hacks, ready to spring upon the first person who leaves the room for the news.
At length, the door behind the dais opens and Father comes out, followed by the Council and Secretary Thurloe, John and the other foremost officers of the court. A great hush falls over the room as hundreds of heads turn from all directions to face him, as so many needles finding north. I expect Father to sit but he stays standing, rolling on the balls of his feet while he waits to speak. I hardly listen to his opening remarks – his apologies for wasting so much time and his customary circulatory preamble – and a glance at the upturned faces of his audience suggests that I am in the company of many others. All we want to know is his answer. And then, suddenly, it comes.
In a clear, ringing voice he tells us he considers the constitution proposed excellent in all but one thing: ‘The title as to me. I cannot undertake this government with the title of king, and that is my answer to this great and weighty business.’
I taste metal in my mouth, my mind wiped blank. There is one collective noise of reaction, though the tone is confused with some men sighing, some muttering approval, some gasping with surprise, others groaning with disappointment. The quietest tut slips from Elizabeth, sitting next to me, though her smile never wavers. In contrast, I see Bridget nodding in approval, though her face remains set in a serious frown. How very different my two oldest sisters are, I think for the thousandth time. It is not hard for me to keep my face impassive as the choir of voices inside me seem to drown each other out into silence. My vain disappointment that I am not to become a princess shames me even as my heart gladdens at the sliver of hope this gives to my chances of marrying Robert. My relief that Father has listened to his conscience battles with my sadness that he has rejected the settlement I know he believes in his mind to be best.
The Puritan Princess Page 16