‘Yes, sir,’ says Will.
‘Run, will you. Tell the lord general that the speaker is coming to resign the powers of the assembly into his care. Tell him that we are coming. Tell him . . .’ Lambert hesitates. Will thinks it might be an apology hovering on his tongue – a strange enough thing for a king-maker to say to the anointed king. Lambert colours, and the unfinished sentence trails. ‘Quickly now, Mr Johnson, if you please,’ he says, turning into the crowd for his back to be slapped and his name to be called.
Will ducks out, into the silence of one of Westminster’s long corridors. Through the window, he sees smoke rising from beyond the walls. The citizens are lighting bonfires in the street, to rejoice the passing of the Barebones. Most Londoners do not want to be godly. They want to eat, sleep, love, drink unmolested by politics and politicians. Sufficient blood has been spilled. Those with any left in their veins want to keep it there.
He should tell Sidrach Simmonds this. If Christ Himself does appear, ready to take His kingdom, there are Londoners aplenty who will sniff, sneer and turn back to their tankards.
Now is not the time to share these thoughts with his chief, he thinks, as he comes to Cromwell’s office and knocks loudly on the panel.
Inside, Mrs Cromwell is standing near to her husband. She looks as if she has been crying. But she holds her back straight and her head high. Her hands twist a handkerchief over and around itself. Over and around.
‘Will,’ says Cromwell, coming forward. ‘Well?’
‘They are coming here, my lord.’
‘So.’
It is hard to read him. This man, who was once a small, insignificant, poor outsider in the flatlands of the east, is about to become the lord of three kingdoms. A king in all but name. It is inevitable now. He could not stop it even if he wanted to. It would be unthinkable. What choice does he have now but to bend his head for the invisible crown?
At least he is broad enough to bear its weight.
Mrs Cromwell swallows violently, her eyes starting from her head. She is not stupid. She knows that they sneer at her. She has no cavalry charges in her past, no glorious military successes to help her claim her position. She has red hands from doing her own washing. She has chipped nails. Greying hair. A belly slack from childbearing. There are less prepossessing women with the title of queen, but they were born to it. Well-born women carry a miasma with them that blurs their faults.
She is brave, though, Mrs Cromwell. God love her. She moves over to her husband, lays a small hand on his arm and says: ‘God be with you, husband.’
Finding time to smile at Will, she leaves the room. The door shuts behind her with a decisive thud.
Cromwell is lost in thought, and Will can study him. His face is calm, but there is a flicker there of something else. Something triumphant.
He turns to Will, opens his eyes wide at finding him there. ‘Such a power of work to do, Will,’ he says. If there is a weariness in his words, his manner is all glittering energy. Good man though he is, how can he resist it? The triumph of being the best, of being the first, of being the chosen. If he is the first man in the three kingdoms, it is because God wills it. And if God wills it, how can His servant not feel touched by His glory? He will call himself humble – and be sincere.
His sincerity, Will believes, is real to Cromwell. A companion to the Holy Spirit that whispers in his ear. But others doubt it. Others mock it. How will the part of the lord general’s character that believes in his own honesty, his own sincerity, survive the exigencies of power?
He looks past Cromwell, to the painting of the triumph of Caesar, and remembers how he saw it when he first came here. He had thought it a warning; it was a prophecy. He looks at Caesar’s miserable face, his sagging shoulders. And again at his chief, who – to no one’s surprise – is on his knees and whispering fervent, desperate words to his Maker.
Later, when Cromwell is done, they settle to business. Occupying themselves with the details that serve to camouflage the whole terrifying affair. There is to be a demi-coronation, to proclaim to the whole world that Cromwell is definitely-not-quite-a-king. He issues instructions on the ceremony that have been long pondered. Suspiciously so? wonders Will. He no longer knows quite what he believes.
In Cromwell’s list of steps to be taken – from briefing his tailor to moving his household to Hampton Court and setting Nedham loose on justifying the protectorate to the plebeians – there are pauses. He looks at Will almost shyly, as if to test the new power his words have to command.
‘I will see Thurloe now,’ he says, drawing the interview to a close. ‘Will you have the Treasury clerks work up an estimate of costs for the ceremony?’
Will bows his head. ‘It will be worth the price. Render unto Caesar . . .’ He begins the quote and waves an arm to finish it. He is still smiling when he sees Cromwell’s face, and the grimace frozen there.
‘I did not set out to play Caesar, Will. I have had much favour from the Lord, but without seeking it. I am not a Caesar. Must I tell you that? Must I be explicit? I did not seek this.’
‘I am sorry, my lord general. I did not mean to imply—’
‘No. But Will, if you do not believe me, then who will?’
Will thinks of Sidrach Simmonds, who will see Cromwell as a traitor to Jesus’s cause. Of Sam, who will smile provokingly and tell Will that the old bastard has always wanted to be king. Of Patience, who will say little but will think of his Mrs Cromwell and her new burden . . .
‘My lord,’ he says tentatively. ‘I think nothing. But it is true that many believe you to have schemed for this.’
Cromwell sighs. He crosses to the window and looks out across the courtyard towards the river. There are only glimpses of it here; its cold grey mass slinking through the frozen city towards the marshlands beyond.
‘The Lord knows my soul, Will. He knows the truth of it. As for the rest of them . . . Well. I must bear the burden of their distrust. For that is a part and parcel of ruling. Did he know that, I wonder?’
Will thinks for a moment that he means Jesus. Most unspecified pronouns in Cromwell’s speech refer to the holy. But this ‘he’ is someone else, Will realizes. The king who climbed a scaffold not far from here, and left dragged out by his heels with his head in a basket.
They are still for a moment, as Will searches for the right words. Before he finds them, Cromwell turns into the room from the window, shakes himself free of fancies and claps his hands. ‘Well then, Will. Jump to it, jump to it,’ he says. He is all hearty efficiency now; the moment is lost.
If this is victory, thinks Will as he hurries out of the room, why does it feel so very much like a defeat?
PARIS
November 1653
IN GLOOMY FRENCH DRAWING ROOMS, ENGLISHMEN GATHER in tight knots to swear and curse the name Cromwell.
He is a dissembling villain, a perjurer. A devil’s imp. A false prophet. A salt-brained infinite liar. He will burn. He will hang. He will find his foul usurper’s head stuck on a spike.
Sam hangs around the edges of the vituperative crowds.
He observes with interest how detached he is from the anger. He thinks of Will and his quiet admiration for his boss. He thinks of Henrietta, his sister, who believed that there was good to be found in most souls, regardless of politics.
These men, these broke and tatty remnants of the old king’s cause, can allow for no sincerity in their opponents, no goodness. When you have lost everything in a fight, all you have left is your hatred of the victor.
‘What say you, Challoner?’ says a voice from the heart of the crowd. Richard Holmes, his friend and fellow follower of Prince Rupert.
‘I? I have nothing to say. We all expected it.’
‘Did I not hear, Captain Challoner, that you were close to Cromwell’s circle when last you were in London?’ Margaret Cavendish, Duchess of Devonshire, looks at him down her long aristocratic nose. It is said that she writes poems and long essays on philosophy. Sam smiles at h
er. God love a clever woman.
‘Your Grace,’ he says. ‘I lodged with the widower of my late sister. He works for Cromwell. His secretary.’
A dozen eyes turn on him.
He pushes his chin out, feels his thighs tensing on the chair as if to calm a horse before the charge.
‘I did not meet Cromwell. My brother thought it wise to keep me hidden away.’
A sigh hovers about the room. They were hoping for tales of the blackguard up close. A commentary on his warts, perhaps, or an impression of his endless prayers.
He stays silent, and the eyes swivel away again.
‘And yet,’ says the duchess, ‘you came back to us. How interesting.’
‘I missed eating snails, Your Grace. Garlic.’
She looks at him intently as the conversation moves sideways and he feel his cheeks burning. He hears Thurloe’s words in his head, drumming an insistent refrain. Tittle-tattle. Tittle-tattle.
He has sold most of the goods he came with. He has turned a small profit. Margaret Cavendish herself has fallen upon the books; her husband on the hunting rifles.
‘What do you say, Johnson?’ presses Holmes. ‘You were there most recently. Will they rise against him, the hypocritical old tyrant?’
No, he thinks. They will be grateful to him. He promises relief. A respite. A shield from the radicals. A rampart against the vengeful Royalists.
‘Perhaps,’ he says, instead. ‘He is a wart. He is no king. She – Mrs Cromwell – is more fishwife than queen.’
They like this. He knows his crowd.
‘He has the army, however, and the rest is gammon.’ This from the duchess. He inclines his head to accept the truth of her words. Imagines her dark hair tumbling over his face.
Tittle-tattle.
He writhes, a little, inside his skin. He hopes they will not notice. He feels as if the words are branded on to his face. Tittle-tattle.
LONDON
December 1653
‘HE WILL BURN. LIAR. HYPOCRITE. VILE DISSEMBLER.’
With each spittle-flecked word comes a hum of approval. Arms are raised, feet are stamped.
Sidrach Simmonds hushes the crowd with outstretched arms. Patience can sense them leaning towards him; their looming vindication hums closer.
‘Who would the Lord choose to have rule over us, Jesus Christ or Oliver Cromwell?’
A harrumph of agreement. Patience watches them nod, sigh, shake their approval. She imagines Sam Challoner standing next to her, leaning against a pillar, amusement lighting his face.
Taking His time, this Jesus, hey? she can hear him saying. No hurry, old fellow. We’ll just tear into each other a bit more, shed a bit more blood while we’re waiting for Him to show his face.
What if He’s not coming? thinks Patience.
She sees the room as if from a great height. The nodding, gurning, back-slapping press of people. Quiet now, they bend their heads in prayer. They mumble, gazing down at the floor. Patience’s chin lifts, her eyes look heavenwards. Are you coming, Lord? And if not, why not? Why not?
LONDON
December 1653
SIDRACH SIMMONDS IS DISTANT.
With any other husband, she would think that perhaps there was another woman. But his nightly assaults on her continue. They come laden with scorn for her empty womb. Sometimes he puts his hands around her neck and squeezes. Sometimes she wishes that he would squeeze hard enough to put an end to things. At others, the will to live is so strong that she imagines fighting back. Biting, scratching, flailing, pinching, punching, stabbing.
But she stays still and hates herself for it.
Oh, the misery of her self-hatred. The wounds and the bruises she can bear. The scorn and the contempt. But she cannot bear the slow dampening of her fire. All the energy and passion she once knew, which trembled in her limbs and bounced in her toes and soared in her smile; all is leeched. She can see it, but she cannot help it.
In its place is a terrible torpor. A great and enervating lassitude that pins her to the chair, imprisons her in bed, keeps her pulling blankets up to her chin like a shield.
Only fear keeps her upright. Fear dusts and cleans. Fear kneads the dough and brews the herbs. Fear counts the coins and places them, one, two, three, in Tom’s outstretched palm. Fear inspects his purchases. It smells the hops and pours the oil. It counts the candles. Checks for slugs and snails in their small town garden with a compulsive eye, because, the Lord help her, a devouring of his sallet seedlings is her fault somehow.
Sarah watches her. The maid, with her long, sour face, feeds the fear even when Sidrach is not there. No respite, then. No relief from the constant drip, drip, drip pissing on her fire.
But most of all, fear makes her a listener. As a child, she was a talker, a chatterer. A teller of jokes and tales. Now she is mute for hours, days, weeks. She is too busy listening for footsteps. Changes in mood. Sharp edges of things that should be innocuous.
Now her intent listening tells her to be wary. He is preoccupied, and not with a woman. He is plotting. Christopher Feake, the firebrand, is here constantly. They whisper in corners. It is to do with Cromwell.
Feake comes for a meal one Sunday, after church. In front of him Sidrach is all uxorious charm. My dear, he says as a constant prefix. My dear, is there salt? My dear, the wine.
His hand closes over hers and she struggles not to flinch.
Feake is charming. He has a pleasant face, good manners. Patience smiles when he talks to her, and answers meekly, eyes cast downwards. Your lovely young wife, Feake calls her. Your delightful wife. Your sweet wife. His eyes flicker over her. Sidrach shifts in his seat. She does not know if Feake’s attention will please her husband or enrage him. She wishes Feake would shut up. Stop talking to her. Let her be invisible.
The mutton is melting soft, thank God. The onions swim in the sauce. Feake’s chin is shining with grease, which catches in the candlelight and shimmers.
‘And what do you think, my dear?’ Feake says suddenly, in the middle of a conversation she has not followed. She has been watching Sidrach eat, hoping there will be nothing to find fault with.
‘I beg your pardon, sir, I . . .’
Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Stop talking to me, you greasy piss-pot.
‘Why do some people persist in supporting the usurper Cromwell when now is the time to prepare the way for Christ?’
‘I do not know, sir.’
‘Come, my dear Mrs Simmonds. What do you think?’
She raises her eyes from the table and sees Sidrach watching her. His dark eyes are unreadable. His hand lies open and still on the table.
Feake smiles. She thinks it is supposed to be encouraging, but it looks wolf-like. His teeth are too large for his mouth, and yellow.
‘I think, sir, begging your pardon, that people are weary. Frightened.’
‘Why are they frightened? They should be humble before the coming of the Lord.’
She nods. It is pointless to argue. Men like Feake and Simmonds never hear.
Simmonds nods too. ‘Only those who have something to hide from Him need fear Him.’
‘But,’ she says before she realizes she is speaking aloud. That one word has earned her a fist; his eyes swivel round to her and promise it. A pox on you, Sidrach Simmonds, she thinks. She says, loudly and with violence: ‘People want to feel safe. Safe in their own homes. In their own land. Cromwell gives them that. He promises safety. Men like you, Mr Feake, think that is nothing. A contemptible, low aspiration. But do not underestimate it. Those without safety yearn for it beyond measure.’
It is the most she has spoken in days. The words feel thick and unformed. She watches Sidrach’s hand lift from the table; the fingers begin to strike a rolling tattoo on the scored wooden surface.
‘Safety,’ she says again, limply, slumping into her chair. His fingers roll and tap, roll and tap.
Later, she asks softly: ‘Why did you marry me?’
‘What kind of a question is that,
wife?’
He is soft and limp. Sated. It is the only safe time to talk to him.
He puts a grazed knuckle to his lips and sucks it.
She folds herself into the corner of the bed, new bruises sitting on old.
‘Please?’
‘I wanted a wife. Children,’ he says. He uses the word as a weapon. The room is dark and cold. The fire is a miserly, dying thing.
‘But why me?’
He pauses, and then reaches out for her in the darkness. He pulls her into an embrace. Her head rests on his chest and the hairs scratch at her skin. Her arm is trapped under her body. Goosebumps prickle her skin
He kisses her forehead, smoothes down her hair. Pulls the blanket up over her bare shoulder. Throws her off balance with this ridiculous tenderness. She pushes her head into his stroking hand. For where else can she find comfort but here?
‘I liked the look of you. Did you see how Feake drooled at you today? Jealous, the dog.’ He laughs. Pulls her in closer so that her mouth is squashed against his cold skin.
‘There, now,’ he says, as she cries into his shoulder. ‘There, now. My own wife. Shh. You must work harder to keep the devil out, my dear, that is all. To obey. It is all in love, my dear wife. All in love.’
She wakes in the dark. Beside her, the press of Sidrach’s breathing. She shrinks into the blanket, making herself small and quiet. It is morning, she thinks, and she must get up before him, to avoid the clamping of his spider limbs on hers. But it is icy beyond the bed. She will wait to hear him stir, and then she will leap into the violent cold and away from any entanglement with him.
She concentrates on him. On the stillness of his limbs and the sleep-heavy sighs and snuffles. She wonders if it is possible to will yourself dead. To teach your sleeping mind to eschew the misery of waking.
It takes her a second to wrench her mind from its despairing meander. For there is another urgent demand on her attention. A clattering and shouting. Someone is banging on the door.
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