The Puritan Princess

by Miranda Malins

  Elizabeth is to be accorded the royal honour of being buried among the old kings and queens in Westminster Abbey: a resting place of such grandeur that it is only she of my family who seems to me glorious enough for it, though it may yet come to us all. She will join our brother-in-law Henry Ireton and the two extreme ends of our family – Bridget and Charles’s baby Anne who lived but a few weeks and our grandmother who lived into her ninth decade – who are waiting for her there. I cannot help but wonder morbidly who among us will be the next to be laid beneath the marble, before dismissing the thoughts angrily: there can be no more death, for I would break beneath its weight.

  For now, all focus is on the arrangements for Elizabeth’s funeral, due to take place in a few days’ time on Tuesday, 10 August. Father will not speak of it, John neither. And so we are all grateful for the combined talents of Colonel Philip Jones, the Controller of Father’s Household, and Sir Oliver Flemyng, the Master of Ceremonies, who between them see to all of the details. They do this out of our sight, only occasionally sliding into our rooms with the softest feet to collect a simple nod or shake of Mother’s head over a proffered piece of paper, a list or diagram and a whispered question. And through all this, Father remains stricken in bed, with Mother and Mary fussing over him anxiously. He has lost his fenland yeoman’s ruddy colour, his face pale above the ruby-red counterpane of his bed, looking so much older than his fifty-nine years.

  The day of the funeral comes and the last preparations are made for Betty’s final journey. In the afternoon, Mother gently raises the question of his attendance with Father as I hover at the end of their bed. But he merely shakes his head, sinking even further below the covers even as he reaches for Mother’s hand, his eyes pools of tears, his brow beaded by sweat. A few minutes later he has fallen into a ragged sleep, drugged out of his pain by a sleeping draught. Mother lays his hand down carefully before drawing me across to the window.

  ‘I hardly know what to do, Fanny,’ she says, gathering me to her like a rag doll. ‘I cannot leave him, not like this. But I should be with Betty. I should be there when she is lowered into the ground.’ A small sob escapes her and I hug her fiercely, aware as never before in my former childishness of how Mother looks after us all and has no one to take care of her.

  ‘Hush.’ I stroke her hair as she has done mine so many hundreds, thousands of times, the grey strands fine among the brown. ‘Keep Mary here to help you. I will go to the funeral with Bridget, Charles and Dick. I will help John to bear it and I will take yours and Father’s love with me to give to Betty. Remember, she has gone to God already,’ I find myself saying, even though I no longer know if He even exists.

  Mother nods over my shoulder. ‘You are right, dearest. I was brought up to pay little heed to the church rituals, your father too. There will be nothing of Betty there for the priest to pray over. Her soul ascended straight to heaven when she died and she lives there now and in here.’ She pulls my hand onto her chest and I feel her heart beating fast beneath the black brocade of her corset. ‘God knows the content of my heart and so does Betty.’ I squeeze her hand and kiss her wet cheek before slipping from the room.

  As Elizabeth died at Hampton Court, her body is to be taken downriver to Westminster by barge. The funeral will take place at night as is the custom and so it is not until the early evening that I make my way, with the other straggling members of my family, to the palace river steps. There we board the Protectoral barge, its bright colours and gilt smothered in black, the liveried boatmen arrayed in mourning, their eyes cast low. Behind us, a mass of noble figures of the court queue along the bank waiting to board the flotilla of other vessels waiting upstream. Despite the throng of people there is a hushed quiet and I hear little but the soft murmured instructions of the officials and the gentle lapping of the river against the pier.

  Betty lies in the centre of the barge, her coffin topped with a beautiful effigy, raised on a platform covered with a fine canopy and torches lit at each corner. It is only once we are underway and have travelled a few miles that I appreciate the purpose of this as I see hundreds of faces crowding the banks of the Thames, straining for a sight of the young dead princess floating through the August twilight. Looking behind our boat, I am awestruck by the sight of the procession of boats following slowly and silently in our wake, each lit by flaming torches which seem to set the very river on fire. Bridget takes my cold hand in her gloved one and we share a sad smile at the sight. John, for his part, barely takes his eyes off the coffin, oblivious to all but his wife who will, in a few hours’ time, be taken away from him for ever.

  The crowds swell as we reach London so that by the time we moor at Westminster steps at eleven o’clock, there must be thousands of people waiting for us. Elizabeth’s coffin is carried onto the land by the liveried boatmen before the bargemaster helps us onto the landing steps. Peering through the torchlit gloom I am relieved to see Sir Oliver Flemyng, Master Thurloe and others from the Council and Parliament emerging to guide us into the Palace of Westminster. For the rest of the eerie night, I follow Richard, John and the other members of my family from one place to another. First to the Painted Hall of the palace where Elizabeth lies in state on a great hearse until midnight, whereupon we process silently through the maze of the palace to the abbey, whose vast facade soars overhead until it is lost in the night sky.

  The funeral ceremony itself is stately but swift and Elizabeth is being lowered beneath the floor of the chapel of the first Tudor king, Henry VII, before we know it. I find it harder somehow to leave her behind in this great, cold place with its vaunting ceiling and royal ghosts. Though I knew the beautiful Elizabeth Claypole to be grand and gracious enough for the honour – perhaps the most regal of us all – my thoughts keep returning to my big sister Betty Cromwell, who grew up a gentleman farmer’s daughter in the fens and who never lost the traces of the East Anglian accent from her voice; the glamorous young woman whom I, even as a child, could see half the young men of Ely were in love with. How has it come to pass that she will spend eternity in the cold company of the Tudor kings and queens? Betty Cromwell for ever lying alongside her icy namesake, the mighty Elizabeth, the Virgin Queen.

  We return to Hampton Court and continue in crisis for the next few weeks, layering our grief for Elizabeth with our concern for Father’s worsening health; both, in my case, built upon the shattered foundations of my widowhood. The strain tells on us all while around us the court watches and waits. I find I am missing Robert more than ever and I wonder often how differently I would bear these griefs if I were Venus still, my beloved husband by my side. Thinking of him takes me often to John whom I comfort as best I can for the loss I, more than anyone, can understand. Together we sit for hours at a time, his dog Badger and the puppy he sired, that John gave me to cheer me in my grief, in a temporary truce at our feet. ‘You really should name that dog,’ John says absently. But I cannot bring myself to make even this small choice for the future.

  Where John is numb, my other brother-in-law Charles Fleetwood is as lively as dry kindling, marching through rooms and pacing around beds. He is everywhere at once: conferring with Mother and the physicians in whispers at the door to Father’s room; meeting in quiet corners with knots of his fellow Councillors; opening letters and dispatching messengers; travelling up and down from the army in London to our apartments at Hampton Court. Once I catch a rare unguarded look on Master Thurloe’s face as he watches Charles bustle from a room and I wonder, not for the first time, of the relations between them. A mass of questions throng in my mind. Does Thurloe suspect Charles of angling to succeed Father? Could Charles bring himself to do that to Richard? And if he did, would Thurloe fall into line behind Charles or press for Richard’s claim? What would any of us do?

  My fears are shown to be well founded when Bulstrode Whitelocke appears at my elbow outside the hall after breakfast one morning, and asks if I know any more about what Charles is up to. He is all politeness of course and I take care not to
speak badly of Charles, but our shared concern is clear. ‘We must keep an eye on your brother-in-law,’ the lawyer says quietly, his peat-black eyes shifting from me across the courtyard. ‘He has summoned the army officers to meet, just as he did in the spring. Then it was to proclaim loyalty to your father in the wake of the uprisings. But now?’ Whitelocke shakes his head, his curls shifting black against his white collar. ‘Now he is sending a signal to those of us on the civilian side of the government, telling us the army will keep its dominance in the state, whatever becomes of your father. Your brother Richard will need to watch his footing should the worst happen. Fleetwood would make a powerful enemy. Lambert too of course, and what is to stop his return to government in that case? We are all hoping that your father will make his intentions clear and formally nominate your brother his successor before it is too late.’

  I tell him that I know nothing further of Charles’s intentions, nor can I believe that Charles should ever betray our family. But a small voice inside me questions my certainty even as I voice the words: I know the streak of wildness that runs in Charles, his godly fervour and devotion to the army. It is what Father so loves in him, Biddy too. When Charles’s blood is up … I squeeze Bulstrode’s arm and tell him to come to me if he learns any more and fancy, in the deep bow with which he leaves me, that he understands my position.

  The weather echoes our mood; just as government and the court is at a standstill, so the heavy August heat hangs, always on the edge of a thunderstorm, a taste of rain on the air. We have returned now from Hampton Court to Whitehall, Father’s doctors hoping the change of air will aid his recovery, but the summer heat is just as oppressive in London, more so perhaps. Wandering to and from Father’s rooms, I sweat in my mourning dresses, wishing I had a version in a lighter fabric. Briefly I contemplate placing an order with Master Hornlock but I would hate to appear vain or frivolous at such a time of crisis. And so I sweat on, Katherine doing her best to freshen my gown with steam. It is muggy in Father’s room, where open windows can do little to counter the decaying smell of illness. Sometimes he lies, fatigued after another fit, sleeping away his pain. At others, he sits up and listens as Mother or one of his chaplains reads to him, his speech quite lucid and some colour restored to his cheeks.

  There is one such time when, for a few short minutes, Father and I are almost alone, only two of his attendants clearing away the remains of a supper tray. It is early evening, the last blackbird singing even as the first bats begin to swoop outside the latticed windows.

  ‘What will the histories say of me, Fanny?’ he asks, his eyes fixed on the massive muscled figure of the god Vulcan who half hangs out of the tapestry opposite the end of his bed.

  ‘Father, no,’ I say, reaching for his large hand. ‘You will be well again.’

  ‘I might,’ he nods, his eyes far away. ‘But if God calls me to Him?’

  I swallow, seeking the words. ‘They will say you have been a great prince.’

  ‘A prince,’ he repeats, the word sticking slightly in his throat.

  ‘A great ruler then,’ I readjust. ‘A good and kind ruler. A humble man who loved God and who fought for liberty against a tyrant. Who brought peace, stability and religious freedom to the people.’

  Father turns and smiles at me then, sadness twitching the corners of his mouth. ‘My little scholar. Whatever anyone else says about me, if you give that account to your children, I will be well pleased.’ He must see the blankness in my face at the unthinkable prospect of my now having children, for he grips my hand tightly. ‘You will be happy again, Fanny, I promise you. Yes,’ he answers my unspoken protests, ‘and have your own babes too. I want to think of you living to be an old lady, taking me with you well into the century after this. Without Betty …’ Tears creep once again to the lower lids of his eyes and he pauses for a few moments, bringing his feelings under control. ‘Without Betty, you must have strength. Be a support for your mother. Support Richard. He will need you all beside him when I am gone. Listen to God. Look to Thurloe, he will help.’

  ‘You will nominate Dick your successor then?’ I ask him, fear driving me to plain speaking even as I choke with tears.

  ‘I will, he is ready.’

  Relief floods through me as Father squeezes my hand. The next moment brings Jeremiah White into the room, a well-thumbed Bible in the crook of his arm.

  ‘Ah.’ Father is pleased to see him and beckons him to an armchair on the other side of his bed. ‘Read me Paul’s letter to the Philippians, Jerry.’

  Jeremiah begins to read and I sit back a little in my chair, still holding Father’s hand though his attention has shifted away from me. I watch him as he nods along to the reading, his lips occasionally mouthing a phrase as the familiar beloved words soak into him. His heavy brow furrows a little and I have the sense that he is waiting for some passage or other that he knows is to come.

  ‘There,’ he says suddenly, his whole body tensing as he leaps after Jeremiah’s words. ‘I can do all things through Christ, which strengtheneth me,’ he repeats, his tone wondrous. ‘That’s it. Those are the words I love, the words I clung to when my sons died. First James as a baby in ’32,’ he is telling Jeremiah as if he does not already know. ‘Then Robert when he was away at school. In ’39 that was. And then my own young Oliver, God bless him, in the war.’ He turns back to me, eyes shining with joyful sorrow: ‘You remember, Fanny?’

  I smile and nod, feigning understanding and encouragement to smooth over his confusion. Baby James died six years before I was born and I was only a baby myself when Robert died at the age of seventeen. I can remember my elder brother Oliver, just: can see him now pulling me up to sit on his horse while he checked the saddlebags, the last time he left home to join Father on campaign. Where are they all now?

  ‘I can do all things through Christ, which strengtheneth me,’ Father says again. ‘All things. All things.’

  The next day is the third of September, Father’s most sacred day: the day the nation celebrates his army’s great victories at Dunbar and Worcester and gives thanks for Parliament’s triumph over tyranny; the day that Providence marked out for him. As if at a cue in one of Master Marvell’s masques, the great summer storm we have waited for finally comes, the sky splitting with lightning as fierce rain hisses through the hot air. We go to the windows, glass cool on our cheeks, faces upturned to heaven and hardly notice amid the clamour when God Himself reaches down and plucks Father from among us.

  I have no more grief to give, no more of my heart to break. And so I drift, numb and cold, watching history happen through a blur of unfelt tears. Mary is inconsolable, weeping in her husband’s uncertain arms as Mother and Bridget pray at Father’s bedside and Dick stares blankly ahead. I take in the scene with a strange calm, observing how from the end of the bed, quietly, politely, John Thurloe steps into the void that has yawned wide in time and space. Satisfied the Lord Protector has departed this life, even as his bulky body is still warm, Thurloe murmurs something to Henry Lawrence, President of the Council, who stirs himself. His voice hoarse, Lawrence calls to the other Councillors pressed around the bed to reassemble in the Council chamber. I watch them leave, my heart thumping in my chest. Had Father nominated Richard to succeed him in the end? He told me he intended to but had he actually done it? My whole life has been so dependent on Father, I think anxiously, more so than any daughter’s could ever have been; will all I have taken for granted crumble to dust now he is gone? Will the sun even rise again tomorrow?

  The Council is gone a few hours, by which time Richard, his wife Dorothy, John, Mary, Thomas and I have retreated to the dining room, leaving Mother to have her final hours alone with Father. Bridget is with us too, upright and armoured in godly grief; Charles, of course, off with the rest of the Council. We are sitting forlornly around an untouched supper table when the guards at the door announce the Council into our presence. My gaze flies to Charles as he strides in and for one fleeting moment I imagine that he is to be pre
sented to us as our new Lord Protector. But relief floods away my anxiety in another instant when the Lord President of the Council steps forward and kneels before Richard.

  ‘Your Highness,’ the elderly Henry Lawrence says, his voice grave and trembling. ‘We the Council are satisfied that before his death your most gracious father the Lord Protector nominated you, Lord Richard Cromwell, his eldest son, to succeed him in this office in accordance with the written provisions of our constitution, the Humble Petition and Advice. And so, we come to you to place the government of these nations in your hands. My fellow Councillor Lord Fleetwood is to convey this news to the army and tomorrow you are to be proclaimed our new Lord Protector throughout the land. We are drafting the proclamation now, to be signed by our Council, the Lord Mayor of London and the Council of Officers of the army.’ He pauses for a few moments before a tentative question follows: ‘What says Your Highness?’

  My whole body courses with shuddering relief. I look at Charles and, seeing tears of grief in his eyes, think in that moment how his love for Father, birthed on the battlefield, was as fierce as any of ours. My gaze shifts from him to Dick, who has risen from his chair and is standing with his head bowed, his hands clasped before him. Even though at thirty-one my brother is twelve years older than me, I think how very young he looks in this heavy moment. It seems an age before he speaks his reply and I hear nothing but the slight rustle of Doll’s skirts as she rises to stand beside her husband.

  ‘I thank the Council for this great honour,’ Dick says at last, his voice hovering on the edge of tears. ‘And I thank them for the support they always gave to my father, who was ever mindful of their good counsel, which I hope they will continue to provide to me. I am inexperienced in the matter of governance – in the great affairs of nations – with all still to prove where my father had none. I recognise the enormous task ahead of me …’ He falters, glancing to left and right as if looking to us for reassurance. I catch his eye, hold it for a moment with mine and force my lips into a smile. In that instant I know that this is the purpose Father set for me when we last spoke: to support Richard, to help him to continue Father’s work and keep our family safe. I feel something stir within me – a determination I have not felt since Robert’s death.