The Soldier, the Gaoler, the Spy and her Lover Read online

  But how circumstances change! Marriage, money and the discovery of astrology altered everything. ‘For it was at this time,’ he wrote, ‘shortly before Ellen’s death, that I appreciated a hidden and stupendous truth: that all sublunary affairs depend on superior causes. This opened to me the possibility of discovering these causes in some manner; of discerning the shape of events before they occurred by the configurations of the superior bodies, the stars – even events between parliament and the king!’

  He was permitted one more entry before interruption on this particular morning.

  ‘My family for generations were yeoman farmers; but I had not that inclination or gift. And so I walked south with six shillings in my pocket which I’ve turned into a thousand or more! And now I sit with wealth and fame, while my friends call me the “English Merlin”, and my enemies, “the juggling wizard and imposter”. And maybe both are true.’

  The knocking was loud. People rarely arrived at his door with a sense of calm.

  ‘I need to know if he’s the right one,’ said the distraught woman at the door. ‘If he’s the right one for my Lucy.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘They speak of marriage – but do the stars speak of marriage? I have my doubts.’

  ‘Do you have coin?’

  ‘I have coin,’ she said sticking a sovereign in his face before withdrawing it back inside her tight clench. ‘And his name’s Matthew.’

  ‘And you know Matthew’s birth date.’

  ‘I know every dark crevice in the wretch’s soul.’

  ‘Would you like to come up?’

  *

  ‘Your attempt at escape was not well received, your majesty.’

  Your majesty? Perhaps it was the building, the fine windows and hangings. But Cornet Joyce regretted the subservient tone in his voice; like some butler to his master, when he was no servant to this man, this bringer of death.

  ‘I’m not sure a king can escape, Mr Joyce. You cannot imprison a monarch.’

  Joyce disagreed . . . and this was hardly a prison anyway – little like Newgate or ‘Little Ease’ by the Tower, where the poorer crooks rotted. Holdenby had been the largest private house in Elizabethan England, that’s what they said, built by Hatton and visited by the queen herself, who had gazed on it with some astonishment.

  ‘You have many windows, Hatton.’

  ‘Through which to gaze on you, your majesty!’

  The old charmer. In fact, Holdenby had one hundred and twenty-three large glass windows, set around two fine courtyards, and became a favourite haunt of Charles’ father, King James, who’d used it to entertain in his wild and some said wayward manner. Young Charles had heard his father grow very loud in this place, and not always sober. Dear man that he was, he could discover a very foul mouth inside him and a rage that sent many people running.

  And somewhere inside, in a locked-away place, Charles remembered other less wholesome affairs – things he’d never told his mother. His father with his favourite men, behaving as they did, naked and naughty with each other . . .

  But thirty years on, the rolling countryside of Northamptonshire held a quieter jewel, no riotous parties now. Instead, Charles found himself detained here, a prisoner at Holdenby and facing an abrupt young man – the sort he’d never had to meet, let alone speak with, until these useless days.

  ‘I’m not sure a king can escape, Mr Joyce. You cannot imprison a monarch.’

  ‘I believe we have, sire.’ To imprison the monarch was Cornet Joyce’s purpose.

  ‘No, believe me, I remain the king and you my subject, wherever I take my rest. These things do not change with a battle or two.’

  It was the all-knowing smile that stirred the soldier’s fury.

  ‘Whether you are king or not, sire, I do not know and do not much care, but I come here now to secure your person.’

  ‘Secure it for whom? For myself, I feel quite secure here at Holdenby. It is a place with a rich royal heritage.’

  ‘Secure in the providence of God.’

  Charles raised his eyebrows a little. ‘So you even organize our Lord now, Cornet? Promotion indeed for the son of a tailor.’

  Joyce had no answer except the army at his back. He looked behind him, with deliberation, through the window, to where his troops had gathered. He was feeling the press of time and the fear that Colonel Graves would return from London with additional forces. He had not expected Graves to act as he had; but a change of plan was necessary and Charles seemed to read his mind.

  ‘I will miss Colonel Graves,’ he said. ‘But perhaps he goes to get help, and will come back to save me!’

  Graves had fled Holdenby . . . and this changed everything. Cornet Joyce had arrived peaceably enough, yet without intention had put terror in the heart of the man. Graves had gazed on the new arrival as if Joyce were some avenging angel, here to punish and take revenge. Did he feel guilt at his collusion with the king? One might surmise that. Joyce had spoken briskly to him, this was true; and perhaps in a manner ill-fitting a cornet addressing a colonel. But he’d merely explained the need for a change in the king’s keeping, a securer kind; and if Graves heard insurrection in that, then it was not from Joyce’s mouth.

  ‘And you come with some authority behind you?’ asked Charles. ‘Beyond an ability with clothes?’

  ‘They are my authority,’ said Joyce, indicating his troops. ‘A note written in steel and signed in blood.’

  ‘A persuasive authority indeed,’ Charles said with a smile.

  And later that day, Cornet Joyce, the proud son of a tailor, marched the king of England to army headquarters at Newmarket. The king was truly imprisoned now.

  *

  ‘I must leave, my love,’ said Oliver. And she was his love; he had loved no other, nor would he.

  ‘Do not forget Bridget is coming this evening . . . your daughter.’

  ‘I know my daughter.’ Elizabeth shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’ll not be here, though,’ admitted Oliver.

  ‘Another war?’

  ‘There will be no more of those; for the cause of the war is caged.’

  ‘So where?’

  ‘Army headquarters.’

  ‘Newmarket?’

  ‘Newmarket.’ He still held the courier’s note. ‘The king has been seized,’ he added, and then regretted his remark.

  ‘Seized? By whom?’

  Oliver paused. Why had he spoken? ‘Cornet Joyce.’

  ‘The little man here last week?’

  Oliver nodded. ‘I don’t remember him as small,’ he said. ‘A fine soldier.’

  ‘He seemed small to me,’ said Elizabeth. ‘And dirty shoes.’

  ‘I don’t imagine the apostles’ feet were clean.’

  Oliver walked over to the window and peered through the glass, much smeared with London and in need of a vinegar scrub. He heard Elizabeth busy behind him, finding work . . . but remaining close by, for she wasn’t finished.

  ‘And the king’s abduction – this is your work, is it?’

  ‘It is not abduction, Elizabeth.’ He was aware that it was . . . so he’d continue to ponder their grubby street and the tarted women flouncing by, a far cry from Ely indeed. ‘And not my work, in any manner. I have not lately left London, as far as I know. ‘

  Elizabeth smiled at her devious husband. ‘But he told you what he was about?’

  ‘He spoke of his concerns; and they were proper concerns – as far as they went.’

  ‘As far as they went? They seem to have gone to Newmarket.’

  ‘The king is safer there.’

  ‘You mean you are safer.’

  ‘Cornet Joyce is a good man.’

  ‘And are you, Oliver?’

  *

  ‘I do not retire, Mother.’

  ‘How can a man retire at the age
of twenty-six?’ she asked, ignoring him.

  ‘I did not say I was retiring.’

  ‘You used the word, I heard you.’

  ‘I used it inadvisedly.’ Why had he used the word retire?

  ‘Twenty-six is no age to sit under the lazy tree,’ she observed.

  Robert Hammond – former commander in the New Model Army and friend of Cromwell – was in Chertsey. He stood in his mother’s kitchen, where she could always be found, preparing some meal or other for herself, or for a neighbour, whether they wished it or not. He regretted mentioning retirement, but merely spoke his mind, concerned at republican feeling in the army, where Levellers and their democratical brood held sway. When all that England needed was quiet agreement with the king, these fellows discovered only injustice to debate and pamphlet about, with their fierce and militant pens.

  ‘I am not retiring from work, mother – I merely seek another way, apart from the army.’

  His mother was carrying a boiling saucepan of udders, tongues and turnips to the table. ‘Apart from the army?’ she said, thumping it down. ‘But what is to be done in this land apart from the army?’

  ‘Plenty, I hope! The army will be at war with itself soon.’

  *

  ‘You spoke of seizing the king,’ said Elizabeth, wishing to pin him down with her words. ‘When you spoke with the cornet, the matter was discussed?’

  ‘We wondered about his safety.’

  ‘And did you authorize him in this action?’

  ‘I’m not sure this is your affair, wife.’

  He was a rage inside but held it back, for Elizabeth did not like his anger; this he had learned. She would turn on him with abuse, go silent for days, or bang plates in the kitchen and harden her manner, as if locked inside a shell.

  ‘Well, did you?’

  Cromwell sat down and picked up his pipe. He knew better than to stop her; she could not be stopped . . . but he could ignore her.

  ‘I commended his spirit.’

  ‘You commended his spirit?’ Elizabeth polished a pewter jug with fury. ‘And you think it wise to seize the king from parliament’s grasp?’

  ‘Is it wise? I do not know if it’s wise, but parliament can no longer be trusted to keep him safe, that is clear – and the soldiers would not be keen to see him slip away.’

  A pause.

  ‘So the army rules now?’

  ‘They have a voice, I think.’

  ‘They have a sword.’

  ‘They felt the heat of battle, Elizabeth. Do you not think that gives them a voice?’

  Elizabeth polished some more. ‘And you think the king will be pleased?’

  Cromwell laughed. ‘We are not here to please the king.’

  ‘So why are we here, Oliver?’

  *

  ‘Who is Robert Hammond?’ asked the king. ‘And why should I care?’

  ‘He was a soldier, your majesty,’ said Firebrace, who still wondered that he spoke with the king, when he used to sell offal in Swindon.

  ‘With us?’

  ‘With Cromwell.’

  ‘He was a Roundhead?’

  Charles rolled his eyes. Why would he wish to see one of Cromwell’s wretched soldiers? Did he come to gloat? And anyway, all was well at the moment, with no need for interruption. Hampton Court was a good dwelling, a fine staging post for his purposes. Eighteen of his staff served him here, in this most genteel of imprisonments. He had kept both his cook and his dogs, though not his wife, and woke up every day in a palace, as a king should.

  He’d always liked Hampton Court, and had come here often with Henrietta, just ten miles up the Thames from Whitehall. So the reasons for wasting time with this Hammond fellow were not immediately apparent . . . though Firebrace remained insistent.

  ‘Was he a real soldier?’ asked Charles. He did not mind a little conversation with Firebrace – containment could be dull without Jane – and Firebrace understood his meaning. Not all soldiers were real soldiers. Some had been more famous for looking dashing on a horse than bloodying their hands with the fight; and sadly, such men had tended to be fighting – or posing – for Charles. No one posed in Cromwell’s New Model Army. They would have been struck by divine lightning after a long night of prayer.

  ‘Hammond distinguished himself at the capture of Tewkesbury, your majesty.’

  He had done his homework. Eager and meticulous in the king’s service, he did not wish to return to Swindon.

  ‘Then I wish he’d been on my side; that was a sad day.’

  ‘Though he is not without a temper, it seems.’

  ‘I do not need to know,’ said Charles with a sigh. ‘I tire of this Hammond already, so put him aside from our conversation. I think I will go for a walk. Have my shoes made ready.’

  *

  ‘So why encourage the little cornet?’ asked Elizabeth.

  ‘I did not encourage him.’

  ‘You did not forbid him.’

  ‘I merely understood his reasons. And in truth, my dear, I don’t believe he intended to take the king. That is not the appearance of the matter.’

  ‘He travelled across England with the king by accident?’ Really, Oliver – do better than that!

  ‘My understanding – what I am told – is that he panicked a little in the heated moment, something easily done.’

  ‘What heated moment could there be, with an army behind him and little in front?’

  Why was his home such a bear pit sometimes? Oliver did wonder . . . as if parliament had decamped to Drury Lane.

  ‘Colonel Graves ran away,’ said Oliver firmly. ‘When he saw Joyce and his troops.’

  ‘But why did he run, when Joyce was on his side?’

  ‘Men panic; it is a weakness. In women as well . . . I have known it in women.’

  Elizabeth sensed Oliver’s slow withdrawal of information, like one holding back logs from a fire.

  ‘So where is the king now?’ she asked.

  ‘He’ll be taken to Hampton Court. And there we will talk and find a way to return him to the throne. Enough? I have had quieter days in battle.’

  There he could rage and feel God’s fury in the charge; but he could not rage here. They never spoke angrily to one another. It was not seemly in marriage.

  ‘I simply do not understand what passed through Joyce’s mind,’ said Elizabeth. She couldn’t put the matter down, and Cromwell stood up, too stirred to remain seated.

  ‘Then let me tell you, good wife, about the mind of these soldiers!’

  ‘There’s no need to shout.’

  ‘I am not shouting.’

  ‘You raise your voice.’

  ‘But still more peaceful than the cannons these men heard . . . men who have seen and smelt the fight, watched friends and brothers lose legs, lose heads, lose uncles, lose fathers – and now they ask themselves, “Why was it so?” This is what they wonder; they wonder why those things were done, if we are simply to put the king back on the throne as if no war occurred.’

  ‘Because he is the king,’ said Elizabeth, flatly.

  ‘As if they had not endured the drowning rain of the campaigns; the disease and the cold, which killed more than the fighting; family against family, the destruction of the suburbs – thousands upon thousands of homes pulled down in order to starve a town; the execution and lynching of prisoners—’

  ‘Both sides, I hear.’

  ‘And no holier for that.’ After Naseby, more than a hundred women who followed the royalists were massacred; the rumour was they were Irish. ‘But it’s no surprise – can anyone venture surprise? – that the army question a little! That the army asks why the author and perpetuator of this war should be so hastily and happily returned to power.’

  ‘Because he is the king,’ said Elizabeth again. ‘Your anger does not make h
im any less our monarch.’

  Silence.

  ‘And now parliament, driven by Holles, refuses to pay them,’ said Oliver. ‘They fought for parliament but now parliament refuses them money on which to live. They rely on free quarter from those around. This is not as God intended.’

  ‘They plunder the helpless – it is well reported.’

  ‘They are God’s soldiers who seek some reward, Elizabeth. I believe this to be fair!’

  ‘You’re shouting again.’

  ‘I do not shout.’

  ‘Why can you not admit that you shout?’

  ‘A raised voice is not a shout.’

  Silence.

  ‘I merely believe it fair that they demand some reward, some recompense for such sacrifices made.’

  ‘The king would look after them better than parliament,’ said Elizabeth, and her husband grimaced. Neither would help the army now. ‘But you abduct the king, and make him an enemy again.’

  ‘It is unlikely any soldier will trust the king after the Naseby letters, wife.’

  It was delivered quietly but with power and now Elizabeth hushed. The discovery of Charles’ private correspondence after the battle had not served his cause well. He was exposed as a man governed by his Catholic queen, Henrietta Maria, and particularly damned by evidence that he conspired with the Irish rebels: the English king in league with Catholic traitors against his own people! It was a long way back from such revelations.

  ‘The king must help us to trust him,’ said Oliver. ‘We seek trustworthiness. Is that too much to ask?’

  There would be no peace in Drury Lane tonight.

  *

  ‘He shot a Major Grey in a duel,’ said Firebrace, keen that Hammond should not be forgot. He felt a meeting with Hammond would well serve the king’s cause. Hammond could help him.

  ‘Duels?’ said Charles, some way away. ‘I never understood them.’

  The duel was too specific for this king, too decisive, not his way at all. The imprisoned king, as both friend and enemy declared, ‘was a master of determined hesitation and silent prevarication’. A duel was uncomfortably forward.