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

  ‘He was then tried by court-martial, sire.’

  ‘Who was?’ Charles’ mind had wandered again. He’d forgotten his walk and thought now of Jane, who would be visiting later.

  ‘Hammond, sire.’

  ‘Hammond, yes.’

  ‘Robert Hammond.’

  ‘And why are we talking about Hammond?’

  ‘He wishes to see you.’

  ‘I need to speak with the Scots; I think that might advance our cause further. I may escape north.’

  He spoke mainly with himself, while stroking Bishop, his cocker spaniel who gave much delight, a faithful friend in unfaithful times. And the wall hangings gave pleasure, friends to the royal gaze. The army had lately brought them from Whitehall to give comfort to the king in his unfortunate captivity.

  ‘Hammond then fought at Naseby, your majesty, took part in the storming of Bristol and Dartmouth, and was present also at the battle of Torrington.’

  ‘Is this the best you can do to cheer me?’

  ‘Before capturing both Powderham Castle and St Michael’s Mount.’

  Two further royalist disasters.

  ‘Quite the busy bee,’ said Charles, who had avoided the civil war as best he could. He had settled in Oxford and found it a pretty city; and he’d first met sweet Jane there, of course.

  ‘And Cromwell trusts him, sire. He sends Hammond to parliament to negotiate on behalf of the army.’

  Charles remained a distant figure to Firebrace. The person of the king seemed never quite there.

  ‘Different people pass through him,’ he once said to Dowcett, a kitchen servant.

  ‘And not one of them great,’ came the reply.

  ‘But still divine,’ Firebrace had said reprovingly. ‘Still divine.’

  ‘I’m expecting a guest,’ said Charles.

  ‘Hammond seeks also to be your guest.’

  ‘I do not warm to him.’

  ‘But perhaps he warms to you.’

  There was a short pause.

  ‘I am hardly his best friend,’ said Charles, laughing a little. ‘It seems he has spent his life fighting me!’

  ‘But he changes.’

  ‘Does anyone change? I doubt that very much. I don’t see anyone changing.’ He would not be changing.

  ‘I’m told that he now doubts the army.’

  ‘A little late for that – the cavalry are back in their stables.’

  ‘And wonders whether it is justified in using force against parliament.’

  ‘Against parliament? And what about the force it uses against the king? Is that a matter of no consequence?’

  ‘We merely notice, your majesty – and take one step at a time.’ Firebrace heard himself being magisterial and was rather pleased . . . Swindon left so far behind. ‘He does not like the noise the Levellers make in the army, this is what I hear.’

  ‘They are all quite mad.’

  ‘Then you share that with him at least.’

  ‘Are we done?’ Charles offered a vague smile as he spoke.

  ‘Hammond has sought and obtained retirement from active military service. A bold move, I’m sure you’d agree.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘And wishes to meet you and pay his respects.’

  ‘Wishes to meet me? He has stolen all my goods, but wishes now to give up a life of burglary and become my companion?’

  ‘These are difficult days, your majesty, and any friend—’

  ‘You really do not see my offence!’ Charles was amazed. ‘He falls out of love with the army, becomes a nobody on earth, boasting neither status nor power – and now wishes to kiss my ring!’

  ‘He is also the nephew of Henry, your chaplain, your majesty.’

  Charles sighed. Why was he talking to this half-wit Firebrace? What had brought him to this? He wished for the old days, before the war ruined everything.

  He looked around him . . . and thought of the Banqueting Hall. Why would he not be there tonight?

  ‘Have you ever seen the Banqueting Hall in Whitehall, Firebrace?’

  ‘No, sir.’ How could he ever have seen that? ‘I have not been to London.’

  Charles just smiled; he would not be speaking further on the matter. It was a building close to his heart – and not for discussing with servants, who simply wouldn’t understand. Built by Inigo Jones for his father, it was the finest building in Britain, there could be little doubt, in contrast to the chaotic and shambling structures around it that comprised his Whitehall residence. It was a jewel, without question. But a jewel which held inside another jewel . . . for inside the Banqueting Hall was dear Rubens’ masterpiece – and the greatest Baroque ceiling north of the Alps! Charles was near moved to tears at the thought of it, for there in that painting was all that was good: kingship, honour and the benefits of Stuart rule. Such art! On one canvas, a cherubic Charles held aloft by England and Scotland, while Wisdom holds the joined crowns of the two nations over his head. Magnificent! In another, his dear father is carried on the back of an eagle to join the gods in heaven. Could anything be more beautiful? And how could his subjects be so blind of eye as not to discern the truth of all this?

  His predicament struck him again. Tonight, he would play cards with unimportant fellows and perhaps gamble a coin or two – when he should be in the Banqueting Hall! Charles and Henrietta Maria, how they had excelled at the theatre of it all! The masques, the public displays, the magnificent hospitality of Whitehall. And how wonderfully such events, such excess, had declared due status – Charles’ God-given kingship! This is how he felt. He had ruled by masques rather than parliament, by theatre rather than debate, an altogether better way. ‘Britannia Triumphans’ – now that had been a spectacle! A heroic allegory of Britain’s naval might on the high seas, and such was the scenery in the hall, one might have imagined one truly was at sea. Here was theatricality, nobility and virtue!

  And his Henrietta played her part. She came alive amid revelry, it was where she was best. Dear Henrietta. And the two of them, they were good together, despite the difficult years, the early ones . . . and yes, they were difficult, almost intolerably so. He had been crowned at Westminster Abbey without his wife at his side, because she refused to participate in a Protestant ceremony. Really! It did not go down well with him or the lords.

  And that was merely the start, for they’d quarrelled about everything that year. In the end, he’d expelled most of her French attendants, and such was her pique, she withdrew her services – those of the body – from August through autumn and Advent. The seasonal words, ‘How long must we wait, O Lord?’ had been spoken with feeling by Charles.

  But then she’d had no English, poor girl, written or spoken, not when they’d first met – except the Catholic creed, which is not the language of love. She set herself apart in that regard – always French and always a Catholic and therefore much scorned, for the English did hate the French . . . and Catholics.

  And all so different from their first meeting. Ah, that was a night of almost unbearable happiness, when they shared discreet looks across the colour and lust of the French court. Had Charles ever felt so fine? She was a bright fifteen when they married, a good age for sacred union and with such vivacity. Charles loved that vivacity, so merry and gay – his little flittermouse, he called her, my flittermouse! And she adored him, he felt this every day of their courtship, the handsome prince from across the water, such good days . . . though perhaps her ageing had proved unfortunate. It was not for a husband to say, of course – for better or for worse, as the marriage service declared. But these days her teeth stuck out from her mouth, a little like tusks, though such pretty eyes above the tusks and a good enough complexion. Her arms were long, of course, perhaps longer than her body required, and her shoulders uneven. And Henrietta was a spendthrift little minx, no question about that! She draine
d the treasury daily with her dress buying. But she was kind to her court dwarves, particularly Little Sara. More considerate than some, anyway; she was almost always kind to the dwarves. And yes, the masques had been so fine beneath the Rubens sky . . . and he would swive with her in costume when all the guests had left. They had been good together, Charles and Henrietta.

  But now she was gone, taking refuge at the French court these past two years. They wrote, of course, such sweet messages; but one could not grind with a letter; and neither could it not hold you on a cold night or handle the king’s treasure.

  ‘Jane Whorwood is here to see you, sir,’ said Firebrace.

  September 1647

  Col. Robert Hammond

  Governor of the Isle of Wight

  Carisbrooke Castle

  September 1647

  Dear Aunt Margaret,

  I have arrived at Carisbrooke Castle and feel better already for the sea air.

  Can you hear the seagulls? They make more noise than the Levellers at Putney!

  You ask about my appointment to this post, which I must explain. It has happened swiftly but well; and I write optimistic for the future. You will know that Philip Herbert, governor of the Isle of Wight, resigned on 3 September. I confess I did not think on it greatly, believing it no concern of mine; but then found myself approached by Thomas Fairfax. He is well known to me, commander-in-chief of the army and a good man; and he asked me to consider succeeding Herbert as governor.

  I did not need to consider long! After all, I have left the army now and seek a different path. In particular, I tire of political stirrings there, with the soldiery much disturbed by malcontents, who complain that dear Oliver and his friends visit the king at Hampton Court ‘and kneel, kiss and fawn upon him’. They do not believe the king should be talked to, it seems; they call him ‘the man of blood’, and there is little the army leadership can do.

  Oliver tried to bring order at Putney, tried to hold them together: ‘Let us be doing but let us be united in our doing!’ he pleaded. But the contrary voices were many. Edward Sexby – the madman – claimed they were trying to heal Babylon when Babylon did not wish to be healed; though the worst offender, I have no doubt, was the revolting John Lilburne – always revolting in my estimation, I will not hide my feelings. He singles out Cromwell and Ireton with especial relish, accusing them of ‘vaulting ambition, Machiavellianism, hypocrisy and insincerity’.

  You will understand, dear aunt, why I seek a quieter life on this isle of solitude.

  And so here I am, at my desk, installed in the castle, governor of the Isle of Wight – a windy venue for retirement but also bracing. And I hope you are proud of your nephew. I am commissioned to my post by Fairfax, with the ordinance passed in the House of Lords. So whether I am the army’s man or parliament’s, I know not; but it is of little consequence, for while determined to fulfil the duties before me, I have left the national stage and gladly so. My greatest challenge is to find a new cook, and improve the table in this place!

  And yes, as you intimated to me in your letter, it was indeed a great honour to meet with the king in person, shortly before my departure. Uncle Henry brought me to him at Hampton Court, where he is held in a gracious manner, and I was keen to profess my loyalty, after our differences on the battlefield. I do believe he looked on me with some sympathy and warmth, for he is a most magnanimous man and no enemy of mine. Uncle Henry commended me as a penitent convert, which the king took well and he gave me his hand to kiss, which was a signal honour. In that moment, I felt the war to be quite over.

  And now I lay my quill down. But I look forward to seeing you soon at Wolverton Hall, which holds such happy memories for me.

  With the deepest and best of wishes,

  Your nephew, and new governor,

  Robert

  *

  They met at Hampton Court just as they’d met at Holdenby House. Jane’s energy knew no bounds in the cause of the king, whose needs were many.

  ‘No compromise,’ she would say to Charles. She always said that: ‘No compromise.’

  Her own life was full of compromise – one laid on top of the other and stacked in a large pile. But she’d insist on another path for the king. ‘Who do they think they are?’ she would ask. And as one imprisonment became another, Charles liked to hear such words, for he felt the same about the little people who opposed him. Who do they think they are? And why do they busy themselves in ridiculous opposition?

  ‘I like your spirit, Jane,’ he would say in his gentle Scots brogue and with the stammer she found so winning; sometimes he was like a little boy. ‘You are my sm-m-mooth-thighed flittermouse, my red-haired Henrietta!’ and Jane was happy to be so, for she had great respect for Henrietta, in her absence across the sea.

  And then he took her hand, pulled her towards him and kissed her bared arm from wrist to shoulder, licking as he went. She laughed a little and when he’d finished, he looked like a guilty dog. He had never before licked her arm.

  ‘You have exquisite arms, Jane,’ he said and she laughed a little more. ‘They please the king.’

  ‘I’m glad they please the king,’ she said, for she wanted to please him, but was surprised to please in this manner. He had previously kissed her forehead and touched the soft skin beneath her neck and above her breasts. And twice he had placed her hand on his trousered cock . . . and once matters had proceeded further. A man has needs, and the king, while divine, was also a man. And he would not remain in this gilded cage; Jane would ensure he was free. Jane Whorwood would release him, like a dove of peace, for this, and only this, would bring calm to this troubled nation.

  ‘I go to see William Lilly,’ she said.

  ‘William Lilly?’

  ‘You know of him.’

  ‘I know he’s a charlatan. I would not waste your time.’

  ‘I will not stay long – but who knows what wisdom he may offer us?’

  ‘The so-called “oracle man”.’ Charles spoke with disdain.

  ‘And perhaps we need an oracle.’

  ‘I would call him “the cunning man”.’

  ‘He answers two thousand questions a year, so I am told, and is paid half a crown for each one. There are many who believe.’

  ‘And many ways to part a fool from his coins.’

  ‘He does see the future, in a wide degree of matters.’

  ‘Farmers asking about their crops, old men about their illness . . . and mothers enquiring after their daughters’ young men. I would not wish to join that dismal crowd.’ And then to further make his point: ‘He is an occultist, Jane, who learned his craft from that appalling Welshman Evans. The Presbyterians accuse him of witchcraft, and on that single matter, I agree with them.’

  ‘The Independents treat him more kindly.’

  ‘He says what they wish to hear.’

  ‘He was much visited by the army during the war, they say – and they were victorious, we cannot deny that.’

  Jane had no opinion of the stupid men employed by Charles to lead his armies in the war, apart from Prince Rupert, who was rather dashing.

  ‘I think their cavalry was more telling than the stars,’ said Charles.

  ‘I will see him, though,’ said Jane. She was set on it. ‘Perhaps God does speak through the stars. We must weigh and consider all.’

  ‘I do not wish to know,’ said Charles, turning away, cold to this conversation; and that was the end of the matter.

  ‘Then I will be gone, sire, and return soon.’

  Jane could be in the Strand in less than three hours, if the tide was kind.

  ‘You must stay a little longer, Jane,’ he said. Charles did not wish to be abandoned now. ‘Please sit.’

  Jane sat down across from the king. She did not wish for another lick or stroke, thinking of Henrietta, who was her dearest ally in the king’s cause.r />
  ‘How was Cromwell today?’ she asked, aware of his visit that morning.

  ‘He becomes easier by the day,’ said Charles, amused. ‘We laugh together. I believe he likes to laugh with a king. He had only a little land in Huntingdon – so to speak with a king does give him some excitement.’

  And then a concern crossed Jane’s mind. ‘I trust you will not agree with him on any matter, your majesty, be it the smallest thing?’

  ‘I shall perhaps appear to agree, and draw him in that manner. Appearance – everything is appearance, my dear.’

  ‘As long as it is artifice and not collusion. You must remember who you are. No compromise.’

  ‘I hardly need dissemble, Jane.’ He did not wish to talk about such things with her; they should not concern a subject, this was the king’s business . . . but he would calm her. ‘I believe he desires me on the throne as much as I desire it myself, but he would tie me with parliament, which clearly cannot be.’

  ‘It cannot be, no.’

  ‘And he would have them appoint my advisors too!’

  ‘That most certainly cannot be!’

  ‘I confess to secret laughter when we meet, behind my earnest face.’

  ‘It would be no throne with such an arrangement.’

  ‘No throne at all. Now, come over and sit with me, Jane.’

  ‘I should be on my way, your majesty.’

  ‘You will place yourself here on my lap that I may take better notice of you.’

  ‘I have a journey—’

  ‘And that is a royal command.’

  ‘I have spoken with Firebrace about destinations,’ she said.

  Charles paused his desires. ‘I think I shall escape to Scotland,’ he replied. ‘Now please, you must come over here for I swell a little and need comfort. I think we should be merry for ten minutes before we must be parted again.’

  *

  A scarce believable scene was emerging in Corkbush Fields near the Hertfordshire town of Ware. There was mutiny in the air and incredulity in those who beheld it.

  After all, this was the New Model Army, famous for discipline, prayer and fasting – yet here it was in revolt. They were waving muskets, with shouts and slogans, and stones were thrown at commanding officers. It had not been like this at Naseby.