The Puritan Princess

by Miranda Malins

  ‘Then they are decisions you must make,’ I counsel, remembering what Signor Giavarina had said to me of the importance of a king making firm choices on foreign affairs. ‘Listen to Thurloe, he will guide you. And Edward Montagu – he has returned from the fleet now, has he not? He has a sure grasp of our position in the world.’

  ‘I have,’ Dick says softly, draining his glass and placing it on the table beside him. ‘I am sending Montagu with the fleet to mediate once more between Sweden and Denmark. Father’s peace-making policy in the Baltic was one of his best and I will cleave to it.’

  This both delights and surprises me and I lean back in my velvet armchair to consider my big brother anew. What keen understanding he shows me, what quiet resolve. I would have loved him but dismissed him once as a quiet country squire, better suited to a day’s hunting than the politics and paperwork of government. But he has sharpened, has learned to listen more than he speaks and to weigh his words fully when he does. And as I see the change in my brother, I think he sees a comparable alteration in me: appreciates how, since Father’s death, I can stomach the practicalities of politics now better than I can digest the intensity of personal feelings; understands that I would rather discuss the preservation of our Baltic trade with him over a glass of claret than cry with Mary over our broken hearts. Whatever my youth and sex, he values my advice now – he must do. Why else would he be here night after night?

  Certainly the all-seeing, omniscient Thurloe observes these changes and the closeness that has grown between Dick and me in recent weeks. So it is that he approaches me one morning as I stand at the back of the outer presence chamber watching Richard receive petitions. Our chief spymaster’s steps are light yet I see the telltale dark circles under his eyes and know that he has faced his own private mountain of grief for Father’s loss. But Thurloe has proved himself as steadfast to Dick as Father told me he would be; the preservation of Richard’s rule, it seems to me, providing him with the only means to overcome the loss of the great man around whom he shaped his life. It is clear to me that the fanatic loyalty Thurloe once showed to Father has transferred, seamlessly, to his son, though I must concede the true balance of service and self-interest in Thurloe’s work for either can be known to none but himself.

  ‘I love him as you do,’ the once ‘little secretary’ purrs in my ear after taking his position beside me and turning his placid gaze back onto Richard. ‘He will need you, Highness, and the rest of your family behind him in what lies ahead. We must show strength and stability. Solidarity. Continuity.’

  I do not turn towards him but keep my eyes fixed on Dick as he beckons a petitioner forward to give some more detailed explanation of his case. ‘His succession has been remarkably smooth, Master Thurloe,’ I comment truthfully. ‘All interests have pledged their allegiance to him and the people are quiet; they are giving him time to find his feet.’

  ‘Indeed, Highness, your observations are as accurate as ever. It has been a peaceful transition. But still,’ he rises slightly in his soft shoes, his gaze sweeping over the room, ‘there are those in the army, in your own family even, who do not share our staunch belief in the young Protector’s abilities, who question his commitment to the parliamentary and godly cause. Those who resent his elevation without his father’s military experience; who think perhaps that command of the army should be placed in another’s hands. Some of the officers have petitioned for Lord Charles Fleetwood to be appointed Commander-in-Chief in your brother’s stead.’

  ‘But Charles himself does not say so,’ I answer quickly. ‘He has ordered his men to stand down, declares himself loyal to Richard. And Richard has reassured the officers himself that he will be their staunch and godly defender and will consult Charles as Lieutenant-General of the army in all things, so long as he remains Commander-in-Chief above him.’

  In former times I would have pleaded ignorance to Thurloe’s meaning, would have danced around his words as around a maypole, but I am more straightforward, more plain-speaking now than as the young princess I used to be. Thurloe knows this too; why else would he lay his thoughts so openly before me – someone he would have considered a mere frivolous girl before the terrible events of this last year refashioned me from soft dough to oven-hardened clay?

  Thurloe inclines his head in concession if not assent. ‘It is true that your brother-in-law Lord Fleetwood stands by him, for now. But there are many who question His Highness’s ability to command the loyalty of men the way your father could.’

  ‘And yet there are others,’ I counter, ‘who think it is the very absence of Richard’s historic relationships that will stand him in good stead; that he is fresh, untainted, capable of bringing together a wider coalition of support than Father was, precisely because he has not provoked strong feelings in others – either of love or loathing. I may have adored my father, Master Thurloe, but I am under no illusions that he did not inspire the fiercest enmity.’

  ‘You are wise, Highness, beyond your years, and I agree with much of what you say. Nevertheless, speaking as one whose wish for the success of your brother’s rule is as strong as yours, I hope that you will counsel him wisely and come to me if you sense that matters are coming to a head within your family.’

  He does not wait for my agreement but merely bows before sliding away into the crowd of courtiers, leaving the bitter taste of his words on my tongue.

  In truth, I know Thurloe’s concerns about Charles to be well founded, and only that very evening see the bubbling tension between my brother and brothers-in-law spill into the fire. Without Father’s commanding presence and Elizabeth’s winning charm keeping our own family peace, I suppose it was only a matter of time before the cracks would begin to show. Though I do not expect the argument, when it comes, to be about money.

  ‘It is a large sum,’ John is telling us, running an anxious hand through his hair as around the table the servants clear away our supper dishes. ‘The physicians demanded immediate payment and, as I could not raise the cash straight away, they have brought a lawsuit against me.’

  I take his hand in sympathy. ‘We must help John to pay.’ I look around the supper table for agreement. ‘The debts demanded of him are for the medicines given to Betty.’

  ‘Little good they did her,’ John mutters into his wine glass.

  ‘Of course we will help,’ Richard agrees.

  ‘Is that wise, Your Highness?’ Charles grates his teeth as he speaks, so the final word seems to emerge with a sneer. ‘When only today the Council was wringing its hands over the size of the government’s debts?’

  John shoots Charles a look of loathing and I squeeze his hand in a bid to prevent any angry words following hot on its heels. In the past he always had Elizabeth to support him in his verbal duels with Charles, ever ready to finish his sentence with a choice adjective and a smile.

  ‘She was my sister, Charles, as I have no need to tell you.’ Richard’s voice is stern, experimenting with his new commanding role.

  ‘Of course,’ Charles rows back a little, ‘and none was fonder of her than I. But you owe my soldiers months of pay.’

  ‘My soldiers, surely,’ Richard counters smoothly and I have to admire his quick, needling riposte.

  Charles bristles but holds his tongue.

  A brief silence then Thomas speaks in his polite, aristocratic drawl. ‘John, I would be glad to help with the bill.’

  I look from him to Mary and see her smile at her husband in gratitude; a smile that gladdens my heart. I have sensed a growing affection between Mary and Thomas lately and indeed, my one consolation in the dark days after Father’s death was seeing how tenderly Thomas comforted his wife. She in turn seemed to move towards him in the fragility of her deep grief and as I watched I could almost see the inches close between them as the days passed.

  ‘Well, of course you are wealthy enough to do so, Viscount,’ Charles barks across the table. ‘And it is a fine way to ingratiate yourself with our Lord Protector and with John
and his Parliament friends too.’

  ‘Charles!’ It is Mary who exclaims and she reaches instinctively for Thomas but even her urgent hand cannot prevent Thomas from rising from his chair and walking proudly out of the room.

  I watch helplessly as my family disintegrates and turn to Charles in amazement. ‘I don’t understand,’ I say, shaking my head against my bewilderment. ‘Charles, why attack Thomas?’

  Mary cuts in before Charles can answer, though she throws her words towards Bridget now rather than me: ‘Do you want to tell Frances, Bridget, or shall I?’

  I have never seen Mary so angry and I look at her as if on an entirely new person. Is this fierceness further proof of her growing love for Thomas? ‘Tell me what?’

  Bridget is staring at Mary in equal astonishment, a knife hovering in mid-air.

  ‘No? Very well.’ Mary looks at Bridget before returning her level gaze to me. ‘Charles has voted against Thomas joining the Council. Dick wants to nominate him and Lord Broghill to become Councillors but Charles and Uncle Desborough won’t have it.’

  ‘Charles!’ It is my turn now to exclaim his name in reprimand.

  Charles looks from Mary to me, his eyes flashing angrily like a cornered stag at the end of one of Richard’s Hampshire hunts. ‘This has nothing to do with you girls.’

  ‘My sisters are entitled to their opinion, Charles,’ Richard says, and we all fall silent under his words, now that his every utterance is imbued with a ruler’s significance. ‘They may not attend my Council but they have to live with those of you who do. I, for one, would have appreciated your support for the nominees of my own choosing.’

  ‘How could I support you in choosing dandying royalists to join your Council?’ Charles replies. ‘Men who would bring back the exiled Charles Stuart at the first sign of your weakness, whose every word would work against the interests of your loyal army? They are not true believers in the parliamentary cause – not like me, not like your father who fought alongside me. He would never have appointed such men.’

  ‘Men who, in the viscount’s case, your father-in-law brought into our family,’ John reminds Charles, his words somewhat slurred over the edge of his glass.

  ‘The family is one thing,’ Charles replies with a meaningful glance at John; ‘there are always compromises to make in the marriage market. But the Lord Protector’s Council is another thing altogether.’

  I have a sudden memory of Lord Broghill standing before me in his brilliant plum-coloured suit offering me the hand of the young king in exile; and another of the dapper lord leading Viscount Fauconberg in to meet us all for the first time shortly before his marriage to Mary. They were as far apart from Charles and his fellow army officers as men could be within my father’s court, and yet could they really work to bring us down? Did they really wish to replace my brother with the young Charles Stuart? Wasn’t it Lord Broghill who had worked so hard to place the crown upon Father’s head?

  Looking at the shocked faces around the glimmering table, I can’t help but wonder: if Richard was ever weakened, would it be these former royalists who challenge him and restored the exiled king? Or would it be Charles himself reinstating the republic at the head of his godly army? I meet Richard’s pained gaze and know he is wondering the same thing.

  ‘And still they are not satisfied,’ Mary complains to me when I go to find her later in her rooms, my puppy, grown larger now, bounding onto her bed. ‘Thomas tells me that not only have Charles and Uncle Desborough blocked his appointment, but that they are agitating still further for the Council to be stripped of their opponents – demanding Thurloe’s resignation and even claiming that Edward Montagu and Dick’s other staunchest supporters on the Council are plotting to kidnap them! Uncle stormed out of the Council chamber, apparently.’

  ‘I cannot believe it,’ I say, rising from the end of her bed, where I had been perching, to pace the room. The glamorous, courtly General-at-Sea Montagu whom I had dined with in the summer, who shone with confidence and certainty; how could Charles expect anyone to believe that that same man now plotted such a low deed? ‘It is absurd. Surely Charles goes too far. He has overreached himself at last.’

  ‘But what can Dick do?’ Mary asks, her face pale. ‘Charles is too powerful, too beloved by his soldiers. Dick must bear his agitating and overcome it somehow.’

  ‘Well, he will never agree to lose Thurloe,’ I say, a measure of confidence returning to me. ‘And as long as Thurloe is on the Council, he won’t let Richard be bullied.’

  Mary twists her hair out of its pins. ‘But poor Thomas, caught in the middle of it all.’

  I examine her closely. ‘So you do care for him then, dear heart? I thought you must do when you defended him so fiercely at supper, but I would prefer to hear it from your own lips.’

  She blushes then, a shy pink faint as rosewater appearing on her pale cheeks. ‘I do care for him, yes. Perhaps not yet in the way you …’ Mary checks herself but she knows me well enough to know I would so much rather that Robert’s name was spoken than that it had died alongside his body. ‘… The way you and Robert loved each other. But he is a good man, kind, generous. Charming once you have earned his trust. I know Charles and Bridget still distrust his motives, think he stays in touch with the exiled court, scheming and placing his bets on all sides. I have heard the rumours about him. But what I can say to that? I know nothing of his affairs and must be a loyal wife to the husband I have been given. And besides, I think that perhaps – at least I hope – that I am with child.’

  ‘Oh, my darling!’ I spring towards her then, almost unbalanced by a happiness I had forgotten.

  ‘It is early still.’ Mary holds up a cautioning hand. ‘I may be mistaken. But I am praying for it day and night and surely God will grant us some good fortune at the end of this terrible year.’

  ‘Come,’ I say happily. ‘Let us pray for it together.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  None of us is sorry to see the new year come to replace the one that took Lavinia, Robert, baby Oliver, Elizabeth and Father from us, the numbers ‘1658’ carved into so many plaques and headstones. It is 1659 and we must look to the uncertain future – to Richard’s future as Lord Protector and those of the rest of us which hang so delicately by threads suspended from his. The army temporarily quieted, all talk now is of the new Parliament – both Lords and Commons – which Richard has summoned to sit at the end of January. This will constitute a newly elected set of MPs and appointed lords – as each Parliament convened by my father during his Protectorate had been.

  Richard is to open the new Parliament and he and Thurloe write his opening speech together. It is a delicate task: under the new constitution, Parliament has gained more control over its own membership and so a greater number of MPs hostile to Richard and the Protectorate have been returned. Dick brings the draft to me and we sit for many hours in the evenings rehearsing it as Doll sits and sews by my side, interrupting her husband every now and then with a suggested word. He will pay tribute to Father of course; seek proper pay for the army – ‘the best army in the world’, Thurloe has drafted in his neat, spidery hand – and emphasise the necessity of continuing the war with Spain, supporting the Protestant cause abroad and protecting our liberties and justice at home. Dick will end with a sincere plea for Parliament to show wisdom and peace and a hope that they all work together to make this ‘a happy Parliament’; words which, though I am but his much younger sister, fill me with pride in him.

  But it is a false hope, just as Mary’s imagined pregnancy turns out to be. Although Richard’s address is warmly received, within a few weeks it is clear that this will not be a happy but a warring Parliament. The new Parliament is unhappy with that done by its predecessor: unhappy with the unclear limits of Richard’s powers; unhappy with the make-up of the newly appointed second chamber, the ‘Other House’ of Lords; unhappy with the sixty Scottish and Irish MPs now sitting in the House of Commons. Richard leaves Parliament to itself but his suppo
rters from the old kingship party work hard to secure majorities in support of his government, the MPs voting with them volubly hostile to the army. Nevertheless, a republican minority asserts itself in opposition, led by the grand Sir Arthur Haselrig – himself a relic from the earliest years of Parliament’s struggle with the dead King Charles. Though fewer in number, they grow in influence when they find alliance with Charles Fleetwood and the other Major-Generals on Richard’s Council.

  Once again, Richard is forced to go in person to address the army officers, this time in no less significant a venue than Charles and Bridget’s home, Wallingford House, just outside the palace. But Dick holds his ground in spite of them all, refusing to give up his position as Commander-in-Chief of the army and commanding the officers not to go behind his back to lobby Parliament to work against the government. Once again, we all hold our breath, but the rebellion is stifled for now.

  It is an anxious time, made worse by my loneliness. Following his snub by the Council, Thomas retreats to Yorkshire, taking Mary with him, her eyes above her fur wrap puffy from the disappointment of her failed pregnancy. She is nervous to leave me, though this time her anxiety is more for the sister she leaves behind than for herself.

  ‘Will you be all right?’ she asks as we cling to each other in the January cold. ‘Things feel so precarious here at present and with Mother away such a lot …’

  ‘I will be fine,’ I reassure her with false confidence. ‘But I will miss you, my dearest, more than I can say. Write to me, please. Often. Every day!’

  With Mary gone, I face the anniversary of Robert’s death alone. I miss Mother too; even though she is only a few minutes’ walk away at St James’s Palace and is often to be found with the Claypole children in their rooms, it is not the same now I cannot slip into her bed at night and whisper my fears to her. With Bridget living just beyond the palace boundary, and visiting us less and less each week, it is only Richard and I left as the husk of our family struggling to find our way in the dark. Dorothy is often with us too, though she takes the children back to Hampshire from time to time at Dick’s insistence: he wants them to retain something of the normal childhood he had, he says often, his eyes straying from the paperwork before him and out of the window. Without Doll, Dick and I fall into an unlikely marriage, observing the rituals of the palace day together in our own rhythm: prayers, meals, business, relaxation. And though we mould to each other curiously well, I cannot but reflect on how odd it is that it should be our relationship left standing after the storm.