A Far Horizon

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  The woman looked close to tears as she answered, ‘They said all contracts are suspended. Private property can be sequestered for use in wartime though they promised that owners who have been loyal will be fully restored – and compensated – when the war is over. They gave me this as a receipt.’

  She held out a familiar-looking piece of paper, except this one bore the seal of Parliament rather than the Royal seal.

  ‘When the war is over. What are we to do until then?’ And what if Parliament doesn’t win, she thought, but she didn’t want to make the woman even more anxious. She scanned it carefully. The premises are to be vacated by the New Year of all civilian persons not authorized by Parliament. Three weeks. The paper suddenly seemed too heavy to hold. She handed it back to her landlady. ‘Put this in a safe place as your proof for restoration.’

  The poor woman looked at it in bewilderment. ‘Since when do Scotsmen have more rights than Englishmen?’

  ‘Since John Pym negotiated a defense pact with them,’ Caroline said. ‘I overheard the officers talking about it.’ But, as she explained, her mind was on this last catastrophe. Was God punishing her for her lack of gratitude? Suddenly the meager hearth and small chamber looked more than adequate. Then she looked at the woman sitting in front of her – a widow too. She would have been about Caroline’s age now – when Caroline was just a girl delivering pies to William and his first wife in this very house. But she still had the same kind spirit.

  ‘Have you any place to go, Mistress Cramer?’

  ‘Yes, I have a niece in Hampstead. She is young with little ones. She’s been asking me to come. She says the cottages around their village have not been bothered thus far. It is you I worry about. Will you try to go back to Oxfordshire?’

  ‘There is nothing for me there. Don’t worry about me. I’ll think of something.’

  She tried to sound convincing, but she’d tried the old neighborhood and didn’t see one familiar face. Most were dead or moved. There was one. Maybe. That man who had come to her aid another time when she was desperate. He had said he was from London and that if she was ever in London and needed anything, to come to him. But he was practically a stranger, though he had not taken advantage of her and had been the soul of kindness. He might help her find a job and a new place to live. His face was burned into her mind, but she could not remember his name.

  ‘Come, let’s not despair,’ she said. ‘Let us enjoy our supper. Something will come along. This war will end, and you will get your house back. Merely think of this as a prolonged visit to your sister while the ministers of Parliament are looking after your property.’

  Mistress Cramer nodded her head as if Caroline had said something profound.

  ‘Yes. That is right thinking. You are such a positive person you make me feel much better.’

  But as they munched on the bread and bacon, all Caroline could think of was that they had a little more than a fortnight to be out. Whatever was she going to do? If she could only remember – they had called him Lord something. But Lord what?

  On the eighth day of December, Lucy Carlisle did not follow John Pym’s funeral cortege as it wound from Derby House in Canon Row to Westminster Palace. There was no place for her in the processional of MPs and mounted cavalry – some of whom, because of John’s last political action, would be paying tribute in Scots tartan to the late ‘King Pym’. It had been a name, coined by his enemies, now used by his friends in simple recognition of his power.

  As was ever her history, Lucy struggled to make a place for herself. Even though her friendship with John was known, it would be uncomfortable for his wife and daughters – and a cause for gossip concerning the nature of that friendship – if she walked with them in their mourning garb behind the coffin. Though she did mourn, mightily. Loneliness enveloped her like an instrument of torture: sometimes excruciating needle points of pain, sometimes pressing in, slowly squeezing the breath out of her until she wondered if she would ever draw another. But it was a familiar pain, and experience had taught her she would survive it. There might come a day when she would not. But, for all her sorrow, she did not think this was that day.

  She never seriously considered placing herself in discreet disguise among the locals who reverently lined the street to catch a last glimpse of the celebrated Parliament man who had led them into revolution, raised their taxes to the precipice of starvation and sacrificed their youth in the hedgerows and fields and ditches, so she came early and sat alone in St Margaret’s empty chapel, waiting for John to come to her, just as she had waited these many months. This time he would come.

  They would be pausing in Westminster Hall now, she thought, as the sound of the pipes wheezed and groaned. The celebratory tones of ‘A Mighty Fortress is Our God’ penetrated her subtle grief. Martin Luther would have been proud – or would he? From Luther’s saintly throne in heaven, did he celebrate what his simple rebel action had unleashed in Christendom during the last one hundred and thirty-seven years? Or did he mourn the years of blood and turmoil his theses had ignited?

  ‘I come not to bring peace but a sword,’ the Lord had warned with omnipotent foreknowledge. But whose side would Christ have been on in the continental wars? Whose side was He on now? Was John being rewarded with an early escape from an apocalyptic fury yet to come? Or was his premature removal punishment because he had incited revolt against an anointed king? Was John Pym a facilitator of God’s plan – or was he a hindrance? She was not wise enough to figure it out. An archbishop wasting away in prison and about to be indicted, and the man who was foremost in putting him there had already wasted away: what did it signify?

  From her seat at the back, Lucy watched as slowly the chapel began to fill with the select few who were allowed entry to the service, but she kept her eyes lowered. As the procession paused at the chapel door, she heard musket fire: the military salute, probably given by Oliver Cromwell’s men. The new lieutenant general of the army in the North had been a friend and compatriot of John’s since the beginning, though there had been some heated disagreement between the Independent General and the Presbyterian statesman about the Scots Covenant. Cromwell was no fan of bishops of any stripe but, in the end, John had persuaded him, asking point-blank if the new lieutenant general would prefer a presbyter or a Catholic pope, which they would probably have one day if Parliament did not accept the terms and troops the Scots offered.

  The piping had stopped. Those assembled rose as six strong MPs carried the coffin down the aisle to its resting place in the altar. Feeling suddenly weak, Lucy clung to the back of the pew in front of her and stood slowly. Carry him gently; you are carrying a piece of my heart. Had she said that out loud? But no, thank the holy angels. Nobody was taking any notice of her.

  To better control her emotions, she deliberately diverted her thoughts to the practicality of her surroundings. Of those who bore the coffin, she recognized four of the parliamentarians she had warned when she first betrayed her King to John Pym. The fifth, her cousin Lord Essex, like Manchester, was off somewhere licking his wounds since he had been relieved of his post as captain general in favor of Waller and Cromwell. A lifetime ago, it seemed. Now Pym was cold stone dead and the King she’d betrayed still lived.

  The Reverend Stephen Marshall walked in his ungraceful gait to the pulpit, filling it with his thick-shouldered body, upon which his robes always hung wrong. There was so little that was attractive about him: a rugged plain visage, his ungainly manner. Yet he had a pulpit presence that was undeniable, a presence that demanded attention, as if some angel hovered over him declaring, ‘This is a powerful man, hear ye him.’ Edward Hyde had once reluctantly conceded to her that he thought Marshall more influential to Pym’s cause than Archbishop Laud ever was to the King’s. Marshall had served Parliament and John well, often preaching to the former in his capacity as chaplain to the House of Commons, and she had heard that, in John’s last days, he was often by John’s bedside in double office as facilitator and friend. Lucy had
heard him many times – since he was Presbyterian and not Independent – and found his exhortations never boring. Sometimes they were filled with unexpected humor. Today, Parliament’s prophet, the Very Reverend Marshall, looked out over those assembled and waited for them to be seated. Then he began.

  First, he talked about John Pym’s Spirit-inspired leadership, his courage in taking on mighty counselors who gave bad advice to a weak king. He was talking about Archbishop Laud, she thought, talking too about Thomas Wentworth. But her attention did not wander long under the dramatic rhetoric of Stephen Marshall. He celebrated John’s faithfulness to his country and to the ‘Lord of all lords’ – as if they were one and the same – and praised the blueprint John had labored to leave for Parliament even on his deathbed. Finally, he built to a crescendo. As he placed John Pym indubitably in heaven, kneeling at the Mercy Seat among the martyrs and the angels, his voice boomed, echoing among the rafters, bouncing off the walls, every ear attuned, no one moving as he extolled that saintly fellowship.

  Mercy Seat or not, somewhere John was surely smiling, she thought.

  When the service ended, Lucy Hay, Countess of Carlisle, followed behind the procession, from an appropriate distance, to the North Ambulatory of Westminster Abbey, where they buried one of the two men for whom she betrayed her King. She lingered there until all had gone and she was finally alone with him.

  After a time, she departed the empty chapel and went back to Syon House where, laying aside her grief, as she had done before, she began to plan for her survival.

  On the day of the great man’s funeral, Caroline and Mistress Cramer enjoyed a day of peace and quiet without the intrusion of the officers coming and going. All of London, it seemed, had deserted hearths and shops and lined the streets to watch the processional, so the women’s domestic peace was broken only by the dolorous tolling of church bells throughout the city. But even that small peace was short-lived.

  The next day, one of the men from the Committee of the Three Kingdoms returned.

  It was early in the morning and Caroline had not yet left to begin her day’s work. The first knock was brusque. Knowing that Mistress Cramer had gone to the shops to buy some pretty ribbons for her young niece (as if anything so frivolous could still be procured in this city of plain and godly folk), Caroline started down the third-floor stairs to answer the single barrier between the women and the military headquarters below. Her landlady had been in surprisingly good spirits for one who was about to be evicted. Caroline had no doubt she would return ribbons in hand.

  The second knock was stronger, accompanied by a sharp command: ‘Open in the name of Parliament.’

  Caroline opened the door slowly and gazed eye-level at the MP from the Committee of the Three Kingdoms. She arranged her face into an expression of mild pique and asked curtly, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Where is Mistress Cramer?’

  ‘Mistress Cramer has gone out. I am Lady Pendleton. My husband holds a lease with Mistress Cramer. State your business quickly. We are busy getting our affairs in order so that we can comply in the suggested time set for Parliament’s request.’

  It had hardly been a request and the time had been firm. But if Caroline had learned anything from her late husband, it was that one must never negotiate from a posture of perceived weakness.

  The MP, looking somewhat taken aback, straightened his shoulders as if to make himself appear taller. He nodded his head briefly and murmured half apologetically, ‘I am sorry, but I must inform you that we cannot give you the three weeks. You will need to be out within the week.’

  ‘Within the week? The agreement was—’

  ‘I am sorry for the inconvenience, my lady, but the city is full to bursting and it is part of the Covenant that the Scots soldiers will be billeted with shelter and provisions.’

  Caroline said between clenched teeth, ‘This is an unreasonable demand. As you said, the city is already full to bursting. If Parliament men cannot find rooms, how in heaven’s name do you think two widows can find respectable accommodations?’

  ‘I am only following orders. You will have to plead your case directly with the Commons. Maybe—’

  ‘How many men are you planning to board here?’ she asked, her mind whirling, building argument like a scaffold. ‘This is not a large house. The rooms you are gaining from the two of us are very cramped and the bottom floors are shared space for the officers and sometimes rehabilitation for a poor wounded soul released from St Bart’s. Surely, the Committee has been misinformed about any further usefulness to be found here.’

  ‘The officers are to be relocated to Derby House now that it is – most unfortunately – no longer needed by Mr Pym.’

  ‘But you said provisions? I am afraid your hapless Scots will find no provisions here. The kitchen is inadequate to feed a company of soldiers. I work in the large kitchen of a nearby house owned by the Worshipful Guild of Merchants. Even though the business of the usefulness of the guildhall is diminished, the Worshipful Master thought it should be kept open. As part of my pay, when the hall closes, I bring the leftover food from the kitchens to feed Mistress Cramer and myself. Sometimes, on a slow day, there is enough to share with the officers.’

  The mustard seed she planted grew to biblical proportions. The MP visibly brightened, like a man visited by a brilliant idea. ‘Then you might be able to likewise provide some provisions for the Scots boarders, might you not? If we speak to the Worshipful Master on your behalf?’

  She gave him a long-suffering look. ‘I can hardly do that if I am no longer working there. And I cannot work there if I have no place nearby to live, now can I?’

  ‘Oh. I do see.’ He considered for a minute. ‘May I be permitted to see the rooms you and Mistress Cramer presently occupy?’

  She stepped aside and, opening the door, indicated with her hand, ‘Up those narrow stairs.’

  He came back down almost immediately. ‘I do see your point. Little would be gained,’ he said. ‘But would you be comfortable staying here? These are not officers using the house for workspace. This will be a company of soldiers, coming and going, sometimes sleeping here. I assure you they are well disciplined, but they are Northmen.’

  She pretended to consider. ‘I would be willing to give it a trial,’ she said.

  ‘You could bring any complaints straight to the local bailiff. I will instruct him about the situation, and he will check with you each evening. I will also speak to the steward of the guildhall. I am sure we can work something out with the Worshipful Master. We will offer him a food subsidy and – if the committee agrees – a small supplement for your pay.’

  Caroline was flooded with relief. She had dealt with soldiers before. They couldn’t be any worse than the Cavaliers at Forest Hill; though Northmen, like Irishmen, were reputed to be an unruly lot. But at least such an arrangement would buy time. She would have some leverage as she was the keeper of the food. Did Scots even eat English victuals? She wasn’t going to prepare something in a sheep’s stomach. But at least she would have a roof over her head until something else came along.

  ‘If I have your permission to take this proposal to my committee, I will get back to you on the morrow.’

  ‘I shall look forward to seeing you,’ Caroline said. She closed the door and leaned against it, tears of warm relief seeping beneath closed eyelids.

  SOUL SICKNESS

  A Parliament is that to the Commonwealth which the soul is to the body. It behooves us therefore to keep the facility of that soul from distemper.

  From a speech by John Pym, delivered in the House of Commons, 17 April 1640

  John Milton did not like to have his morning lessons interrupted, so he looked up impatiently when his housekeeper appeared at the door. ‘Yes, what is it, Trapford?’

  ‘A gentleman to see thee, Mr Milton.’

  He started to tell her to send him away, but his curiosity got the best of him. The fellow must have been persistent for Patience to interrupt.

 
; ‘Did he give his name?’

  ‘No, but he said he has come a very long way; that he is an old friend from Cambridge.’

  ‘Very well, I will see him briefly.’

  He turned to the pupils who, having heard this exchange, were already sharing glances of scarcely suppressed relief. ‘Mr Simms, you are in charge. Be diligent in taking down the names of those who do not give attention to their translations.’

  Probably some would-be poet, trying to gain influence, he thought, but when he entered the drawing room he could not conceal his delight. ‘Roger. Roger Williams. Old friend indeed.’ He rushed forward, grasping his fellow’s hand, inviting him to sit. ‘How good to see you. What brings you back to London? Have you returned for good?’

  ‘For good? London was bad enough when I left.’ He shook his head. ‘But now? By all the saints, it is a bleak and stifled place: shops shuttered, soldiers everywhere and the town surrounded by a great muddy ditch. New England looks a paradise by this measure, even in winter.’ He paused in his critique and smiled, slapping John on the back. ‘But you, John Milton, you are a sight for sore eyes. Thought I should renew our friendship, maybe get a refresher from my tutor in Hebrew. How is your Dutch?’

  ‘As rusty as your Hebrew, I am guessing, though I’ll confess I got the better end of that bargain. You proved the better tutor. If you are not abandoning your Utopian dream for a newer, better England, what really brings you back?’

  ‘Not abandoning it at all. Though I’ll admit I have learned a thing or two about liberty. Hard to achieve and harder still to keep. I have made some enemies among the Massachusetts settlers. Serious enemies. The Boston Puritans didn’t cross an ocean seeking freedom of religion – just freedom for their own religion. They brought the same old tyranny with them. No deviation allowed from their militant orthodoxy.’