Bell Harry

by Nicholas Best

  It was evening by the time they arrived. The mayor of Canterbury made a brief speech of welcome before presenting the King with a tankard of solid gold worth £250. Then he produced a ceremonial sword. Holding it upright in front of him, the mayor led Charles and the rest of the procession through streets full of cheering people to the gates of St Augustine’s, the other side of the city.

  ‘Here we are, Your Majesty,’ the mayor told the King when they reached the abbey. ‘I hope you’ll enjoy your stay at the abbey. It had very happy memories for your parents.’

  ‘I’m sure I shall,’ Charles said. ‘It’ll be wonderful just to be sleeping in England again.’

  The Fyndon Gate closed behind him. Charles wasn’t seen again for the rest of that day. Some of his companions from exile stayed the night at the abbey with him, but most found accommodation in the city. Every inn was busy and every hotel room was taken as they celebrated their long-awaited return to England before finally bedding down for the night.

  Next morning, there was a service of thanksgiving for the King’s restoration. The cathedral was crammed for the occasion. All of Canterbury was there to welcome the King and point him out to their children. Hundreds of people had come from elsewhere as well. It had been a very long time since anybody had seen a monarch in Canterbury. Nobody wanted to miss it as the King arrived from St Augustine’s and took pride of place in the choir.

  He was a fine-looking man as he sat down. Twenty-nine years old, much taller than his parents, splendidly dressed for the occasion. Charles looked every inch a king as he knelt to say his prayers before the service began.

  The cathedral, by contrast, was a very sorry sight. Years of neglect had taken a heavy toll. After the miseries of Parliamentary rule, Canterbury cathedral looked more like one of Henry VIII’s ruined monasteries than the foremost place of worship in the kingdom.

  The roof had been badly damaged, for a start. So much lead had been stolen that the timbers were rotting and snow lay thick on the floor of the nave in winter time. The stained glass windows had been smashed, as had much of the pipework. The choir had been stripped of all its tapestries. The organ, communion table and altar rails had not been repaired since their destruction during the Civil War eighteen years earlier. And the monuments were still defaced.

  On top of all that, the cathedral’s books and furniture had long ago been sold. The records and paperwork had been scattered and lost. Everything else of any value had been smashed or stolen, right down to the brasses and iron bars around the monuments. The place was so derelict that Parliament had discussed the possibility of taking Bell Harry’s tower down brick by brick and leaving the middle of the cathedral open to the sky.

  But that was in the past now. The King was back, which must surely mean that the cathedral would be restored in due course. The outlawed Book of Common Prayer was back as well. It was in open use during the service. The congregation told each other happily that there would probably be hymns again too, once a new organ had been installed.

  ‘An excellent service,’ Charles told General Monck, after it was over. He was very gratified at his reception in the cathedral. ‘It’s splendid to be in an English church again.’

  ‘You have been in exile too long, sir. It’ll all be different from now on.’

  They returned to St Augustine’s after the service. The King was going to hold the first court of his reign there. He had invited the local gentry to meet him at the abbey and kiss his hand, as was the custom. Other people were coming as well, everybody who felt that they had a claim on the King’s attention, now that he was back in England at last.

  ‘There are rather a lot of them,’ Monck warned, as the King waited to receive his subjects. ‘It looks as if it’ll take quite some time for you to see them all.’

  ‘What do they want?’

  ‘Some of them fought for Parliament during the rebellion. They want to apologise for that and receive your pardon in exchange.’

  ‘Others?’

  ‘They fought for your father. They lost their estates or were forced into exile. They’re asking for compensation, if they can get it.’

  The queue of people seemed never-ending. Everyone had a petition or grievance of some kind. The new king was forced to remain standing for hours as they all waited in line to kiss his hand and tell him their story. He was exhausted by the time the last of them had gone and he was free to relax again.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s more,’ Monck told him. ‘I’ve made a list of people you may want to appoint to the Privy Council.’ He handed it over. ‘I believe you’re going to hold a meeting of the council later?’

  ‘Tonight.’ Charles put the list in his pocket. ‘After we’ve had a rest.’

  The King read the list as soon as he was alone. He was appalled to see that only two of the names belonged to Royalists. About forty of the remainder were Presbyterians or former Roundheads. They were Monck’s choices, not his. The man was trying to pack the council with people loyal to Parliament.

  Charles decided to appoint only a few councillors that day and leave the rest for later. He mollified Monck by appointing him a Knight of the Garter at the beginning of the council meeting. Taking up a sword, Charles dubbed the Roundhead general gently on the shoulder.

  ‘This is for your famous actions in military commands,’ he told him. ‘By your wisdom, courage and loyalty, you have acted principally in our restoration without effusion of blood. Your actions have no precedent or parallel.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Your Majesty. I’m very happy that no blood has been shed during your return. There’s been far too much of that already.’

  Only a handful of Privy Councillors were present for their first meeting at St Augustine’s abbey. Monck wore the insignia of the Garter around his neck as they got down to business.

  ‘The most important item on the agenda is Your Majesty’s arrival in London,’ he told the King. ‘You go to Rochester from Canterbury. You’ll visit the royal dockyards at Chatham before spending the night in Rochester. Then on to London next day.’

  ‘What kind of reception will we have when we get there?’

  ‘The same as you’ve had already. Great rejoicing all the way.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Quite sure, Your Majesty. Everyone will be very pleased to see you.’

  The other councillors nodded in agreement. The country was celebrating the end of Roundhead rule as much as the reappearance of the King after his enforced absence. It was going to be a new beginning for the realm in every way.

  ‘And when we get to London?’

  ‘You’ll ride across London Bridge, then down past St Paul’s and along the Strand. There’ll be a huge procession all the way to Whitehall. The members of both Houses of Parliament will be assembled there to greet you.’

  ‘I can hardly wait,’ Charles said wryly.

  ‘You’ll find Parliament much changed,’ another councillor assured him quickly. ‘The members all know that dreadful mistakes were made in the past. They’re determined to work sensibly with the King from now on. Monarch and Parliament both need each other.’

  ‘I suppose they do,’ Charles conceded reluctantly. ‘We shall all have to let bygones be bygones if we want to live together in peace. Except for regicides, of course.’

  They nodded again. It had been agreed as part of the King’s return from exile that former Roundheads should not be punished for their conduct during the Civil War, so long as they took an oath of loyalty to him. The only exception was for the Parliamentarians who had signed the warrant for Charles I’s execution. There was to be no mercy for the people who had killed the new King’s father.

  ‘Where is Sir Michael Livesey now?’ Charles asked. Livesey was the man who had demanded the keys to Canterbury cathedral in 1642. He had later been one of those who signed Charles I’s death warrant.

  ‘Nobody knows. On the run somewhere. He’ll be hanged, drawn and quartered if he dares to show his face.’
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  ‘Let’s make sure that he is. Whatever mistakes my father made, he didn’t deserve to be butchered in public.’

  They turned to the next item on the agenda. There was a lot of business to get through. Charles was astonished at quite how much. He had found it one thing after another ever since his arrival at Dover the previous day. Charles had hardly had a moment to himself since setting foot back in England.

  He was on the move again a day later, leaving Canterbury for Rochester. The crowds gathered again to watch him go. They gave him an enormous cheer as he got into his carriage at St Augustine’s and set off along the High Street towards the West Gate. The people of Canterbury were going to miss their new King after all the buzz and excitement of the past three days. It was wonderful to have a monarch on the throne again.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wolfgang Mozart and the Infant Prodigy

  ‘Are we there yet?’ Wolfgang Mozart was a fidgety child, only nine years old. He was always bored on long coach journeys. ‘Will we get there soon?’

  ‘Quite soon,’ his father assured him. ‘Not much further now.’

  The coach rattled on. The Mozart family was travelling from London to Canterbury. Leopold Mozart, his wife Anna Maria, their thirteen-year-old daughter Nannerl and young Wolfgang had lived in England for the past year, but they were going home now. After one last performance in Canterbury, they were off back to Europe and their real home in Salzburg.

  It had been a splendid year for the family. Young Wolfgang, a composer since the age of six, had been a huge sensation in London. Within a few days of the family’s arrival in April 1764, he had been invited to Buckingham House to play the clavier for King George III and Queen Charlotte. The Mozarts hadn’t looked back after that.

  A week after the performance, the four of them were walking in St James’s Park when the King spotted them from his carriage, even though they were wearing different clothes. He leaned out of the window at once, nodding to the family and waving at them as he drove past, while onlookers gaped in astonishment. A king saluting a small boy didn’t happen every day in the park.

  Where the King led, everyone else followed. The Mozarts had been invited everywhere during their stay in London. Wolfgang’s father and sister were talented musicians in their own right. Often playing as a trio, the three of them had taken the capital by storm.

  They had twice returned to Buckingham House to entertain the King and Queen again. At her request, Wolfgang had dedicated six of his newly composed sonatas to the Queen in return for a 50 guinea fee. The Mozarts had given public recitals as well, raking money in as the aristocracy flocked to hear them. There were no mountains that they hadn’t conquered during their fourteen months in the capital.

  But the time had come to leave, if only because London was no place for children to grow up. England’s capital was the biggest, most powerful city in the world, but it was also expensive, dirty, unhealthy and full of vice. The Mozarts yearned for Salzburg after so long a time away from home.

  ‘We’ll spend a night in Canterbury before we go,’ Leopold told the children. ‘Nannerl and Wolfgang are booked to give a performance in the town hall. After that, we’ve been invited to stay in the country for a few days until our ship is due to sail.’

  ‘The country?’

  ‘Bourne Park. A Mr Mann has invited us. I believe he’s an English milord of some kind.’

  They drove on. Canterbury was looking lovely when they reached it. Their first sight of the city was through the window as their coach rounded a bend near Harbledown. The city lay in the valley ahead of them, dominated by the tower of Bell Harry. Leopold pointed it out to his children.

  ‘See that? That’s the Hauptkirch. Canterbury cathedral.’

  A few minutes later, they arrived at their inn on the High Street. The inn lay across the road from the town hall, where the children were to give their recital next morning. As soon as they had unpacked, Leopold Mozart went across to the hall to discuss the arrangements for the performance.

  ‘I’m afraid we have bad news,’ he was told. ‘It looks as if it may have to be cancelled.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We haven’t sold enough tickets.’

  ‘Not enough?’ Leopold was shocked. ‘Why ever not?’

  ‘Nobody wants to come.’

  ‘But we always sell tickets for Wolfgang’s performances.’

  ‘Not in Canterbury, you don’t. There isn’t much demand, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Did you advertise it properly? Tell people he was coming?’

  ‘We did, yes. We put an advertisement in last Saturday’s newspaper.’

  A copy of the Kentish Post for 20 July 1765 was produced. Leopold scanned it in disbelief:

  On Thursday July 25 at Eleven in the Forenoon will be A MUSICAL PERFORMANCE at the TOWN HALL in Canterbury FOR the BENEFIT of Master MOZART, the celebrated German Boy aged nine years and his Sister who have exhibited with universal Applause to the Nobility and Gentry in London. The Compositions and extempore Performances of this little boy are the Astonishment of all Judges of Music. Admission 2s 6d.

  ‘Yet you haven’t sold enough tickets?’

  ‘I fear not. Unless there’s a last-minute rush, we’ll have to cancel the whole performance.’

  Leopold was outraged. ‘Wolfgang and Nannerl performed for the King and Queen in London,’ he pointed out. ‘They’re very talented. Everyone wants to hear them play.’

  ‘Not in Canterbury, they don’t. It’s probably because of the races.’

  ‘The races?’

  ‘There’s a race meeting at Barham this week. Horse racing. There’s cock fighting too. People would much rather watch a cock fight than see your children perform.’

  Leopold Mozart knew about the race meeting. Horatio Mann had invited his family to attend when they came to stay. He hadn’t realised it would interfere with the recital.

  ‘So the performance is cancelled?’

  ‘We won’t know for sure until tomorrow morning. There may be a last-minute rush, now that everyone knows you’re here.’

  There was no rush. The performance was duly cancelled and the Mozarts were left at a loose end for the morning. After they had got over their annoyance, they wondered what to do until it was time to go to Mr Mann. Mrs Mozart suggested they should look around the Hauptkirch, since they were in Canterbury.

  ‘We might as well,’ she told her family. ‘We won’t get the chance again.’

  They went to the Martyrdom first and then wandered around the rest of the cathedral. Disappointed at the cancellation of the performance, Wolfgang Mozart trailed disconsolately after his parents until they came at length to the organ loft beside the choir. He perked up when he saw the organ, sitting high in the loft. It was a mighty instrument, with three manuals and fourteen stops. He eyed it with professional interest.

  ‘Think you could play that?’ his father asked him. There was no more complex piece of machinery in the world than a church organ.

  ‘Of course I could, if anybody in Canterbury wanted to listen.’

  They returned to the inn after their visit to the cathedral. The innkeeper came at once to tell them that they had had a visitor in their absence.

  ‘The Dutch ambassador,’ he told Leopold Mozart. ‘He’s waiting for you in the tap room.’

  ‘The Dutch ambassador?’ Leopold was puzzled. What did a diplomat want with the Mozarts?

  He went to find out. The ambassador leapt to his feet as soon as he came in.

  ‘I’m so glad I found you,’ he told Leopold. ‘I’ve been following you all the way from London. I thought I was going to miss you before you went to France.’

  ‘Well, now that you’re here, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I have a request for you from the Princess of Weilburg.’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘The Prince of Orange’s sister. In Holland. She’s very keen to meet your son.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘She wants y
ou to come to The Hague before you go home so that she can hear him play.’

  ‘At The Hague?’

  ‘She’s heard so much about Wolfgang. She wants to see him for herself.’

  Leopold sighed. He had already refused several invitations from the Prince of Orange to visit Holland. Now the Prince’s sister was asking him as well.

  ‘She’s with child,’ the ambassador told him. ‘She’d count it as a very special favour if she could hear Wolfgang play before her confinement. The Princess would certainly make it worth your while, if you all came to Holland.’

  ‘How much?’

  The ambassador named a sum. The Princess’s offer was very generous.

  ‘All right,’ Leopold agreed wearily. ‘I suppose we shall have to give in. We’ll come. We can hardly refuse a woman if she’s pregnant.’

  ‘That’s very good of you. You won’t regret it. The Princess will make your family very welcome in The Hague.’

  The ambassador departed after lunch. He was visibly relieved as he bade the Mozarts farewell and returned to London. The family settled their bill at the inn and hired a coach to take them to Bourne Park. It was a large country estate just outside Canterbury, near Barham Downs.

  Their host wasn’t quite an English milord. Horatio Mann was merely the heir to a baronetcy. He was a rich young man of 21, recently married to the Earl of Gainsborough’s daughter Lucy. They were in the first flush of wedded bliss as they welcomed the Mozarts to their magnificent home across the road from the racecourse on the Downs.

  Bourne House stood in its own extensive grounds. The estate included an ice house, a bridge over the river feeding the lake and a paddock that was currently being transformed into a cricket pitch. Horatio Mann – Horace, to his friends — was an enthusiastic sportsman. He had big ambitions for cricket in Kent.