by Oliver Ma
Chapter 4, The Grand Escape
Setting up my court was a special thing, and I couldn’t get enough of it. I toyed around with my options. There were several senior ministers and generals, all of whom both deserve and demand a place in my Scottish government. I gave Edward Hyde the title as my chief minister, and Wilmot, the overall commander of my armies. To Anthony I gave the power to control my finances, and to my other followers I bestowed titles of nobility and grants of land.
The next few days reports began to pour in from all over the country, and I must admit much of it was depressing. Much of central Scotland is still controlled by some hardline Covenanters who still resists the Royalist influence. None of the regions have ministers over them to collect taxes and reconstruct destroyed villages, and my government may very well have been a simple fiction in Edinburgh to most of Scotland. Whats worse, I had expected a strong, Royal Scottish Army with which I simply had to order south and secure England for me. What I found was much more depressing. Most of the 20,000 strong Scottish force that crushed Rupert at Marston Moor have since either been killed in the civil war, or been disbanded to return to their families. Most, including the most elite of the Scottish army are now too old to enlist. The army that fought father in 1640 was now mostly in their 40s and 50s, and in no condition to fight Cromwell’s still mid aged New Model Army. Adding all the soldiers of Scotland together, including those garrisoned in rebellious cities, I found I had about 7,000 troops under my command. It was not until June that I found a second Scottish army of 2,000 men was raiding in England and sent messages reported of their presence to me. That puts my total available force to 9,000, most of which I have to keep in Scotland to put down Covenanter uprisings.
I knew we had to act fast. Cromwell’s New Model Army is rested and veteran from the civil war, and numbering in the 20,000s. If we could head south and take several key fortresses before Cromwell arrives, our chance of victory would be much greater. Keeping that in mind, I gave the commander of the 2,000 Scots in southern Scotland, a man by the name of Stanley, permission to levy troops and ordered him to invade England, with the intent to cause as much havoc as possible. At the same time I levied as much troops as I could, drafting many past Scottish soldiers, both new recruits and militia in the Scottish Civil War, to join a second army forming at Edinburgh. I hoped to defeat Cromwell’s New Model Army with this new Scottish Army I was building.
By July, Stanley’s army had defeated many small regiments of English Levies, and the army at Edinburgh was now almost 15,000 men strong. I longed to find some more generals to support my cause, now that victory was beginning to emerge as a likely possibility. I even sent a letter to Rupert, inviting him to lead my armies, but I doubt he would be able to arrive before the war swings decisively one way or another, and thus I put that hope away.
With my Edinburgh Army, I headed south to join Stanley. Wilmot would be the overall commander of the combined armies, and our ultimate goal would be to confront and defeat Cromwell’s New Model Army, which must be near York by now.
On November 22nd, 1649, our army left York. I was very high spirited. The war now seems to be going quite favorably. A stream of good news arrives daily from Stanly’s army. Just last weekend he routed 250 English Militia, which was marching to York to join Cromwell. Last month he had taken and burned an important English fort, denying Cromwell of much of his supplies. From all the good news coming in, I was almost sure Stanly can defeat the New Model Army all by himself!
All along the march south, much of it near the coast of the North Sea, we were met by enthusiastic Scots, coming to cheer us on, many showering the army with gifts. They seemed like a completely different race from the one that angrily drove the King out of Edinburgh in 1640. They had not liked the King, of course, but his death, as well as Cromwell’s new, repressing laws in Scotland all contributed to the love they now showed me.
By the first of October, we crossed the border to England. We have met no resistance so far, but Stanly had also stopped dispatching reports at us. The last report had come in a week ago, when he claimed to be scouting the area of York while awaiting the main army. I do not know whether he was successful or not in his Scouting efforts, but he must have been successful, for we’ve seen no sign of the English Army anywhere. The war front was a little too quiet. Wilmot was still as enthusiastic as ever, however, and he drove the army as fast as he could. He probably can’t wait to liberate London, and then invite his young son Henry so the boy can spend his childhood in Royalist England.
One night a lone rider rode into our camp. He was escorted to me, and I found out he was Stanly.
“What has happened? I haven’t heard of you since we crossed the border!” I demanded angrily.
“My liege.” He said. He had mud splattered on his face and dried blood on his clothe. “My army…it was ambushed by Cromwell and routed outside York! That is why I have sent no dispatch!” He replied.
“What? Routed? Where is your army then?” I asked. “Why have my army not met the stragglers?”
“There are no stragglers. It was a double ambush. All the stragglers were rounded up and captured a few miles from the site of the initial battle. My army is no more!” He cried.
I looked at him in disbelief. I know I should be angry. This man singlehandedly doomed my army, Scotland, and the royalist cause! Yet deep inside I felt sympathy, looking at the pathetic, shivering wreck that knelt at my feet.
“Get up. Redeem yourself. Tell Wilmot all you know, and you may be present when we destroy the New Model Army.” I told him as coldly as I could, trying to hide my sympathy.
He crawled up to me, kissed my hand, and scrambled up to find Wilmot.
Supper was about to be served, and many soldiers were out in the fields instead of in camp, taking a walk and spending some time with friends before tomorrow’s march. I pondered our situation. We have no idea where Cromwell was, or where any of the English was. So deep into English Territory, and northern England seemed deserted! It all seemed too easy. In a few more days we’d have reached York. Either father’s generals were all dim witted and unworthy, or this fox Cromwell is even more sly than I imagined.
After supper another messenger arrived. He handed me a rain splattered letter and quickly left. I tore it open. It was from Argyll.
“I write to inform you of several developments in Scotland that you would likely title as unfortunate. First of all, your majesty’s graced sister, Elizabeth Stuart, had perished when exposed to harsh conditions while Cromwell moved her from London to York. The fate of your brother, Henry, remains unknown. Meanwhile, much more urgently, Scotland is invaded by the English. Towns are falling without much of a resistance, as you have taken most of the garrisons with you. The English are nearing Edinburgh. Unless you march back as soon as possible, I hope you won’t be too surprised when you hear of our surrender to Cromwell.
Sincerely, Archibald Campbell, Marquis of Argyll.”
For a moment I just stared at the letter in my hand, shocked. My sister, dead? That Cromwell! He had taken my father, now he had taken my sister, and it looks like he might be able to take my head soon, too!
“Break Camp!” I shouted, barely recognizing the sound of my own voice. I didn’t know what I’m doing. The red coated English have marched around us and is striking for the unprotected walls of Edinburgh!
I shouted again. “Break Camp! We have to march north now!” Soldiers around me hurried to work. I ran to Hyde’s camp.
“What’s wrong? Why are we breaking camp?” He asked me, clearly worried.
“We’re doomed!” I told him, handing Hyde the letter.
As he read, I looked at the soldiers around me. They were scrambling left and right to break camp, panicked expressions on their faces. They reminded me of the scrambling legs of a centipede whose head was cut off by Villiers in the gardens of Buckingham. Rumors has already spread all over our encampment, most of which had very little accuracy but did send wa
ves of panic reverberating throughout the camp. I knew we could not possibly march back into Scotland fast enough to save Edinburgh. We are about 150 miles away from the city while Cromwell must be in Scotland already! Soon Edinburgh will fall, and we will become a fugitive army with no kingdom’s banner to bear!
To my right someone was busy climbing the tower in the middle of the camp to blow the horn, calling all the soldiers back to camp. At this point however drums began to beat. Hyde looked at me in surprise. I looked back, equally surprised. Drums signaled the disciplined march of an army on the attack.
All around me soldiers begun to shout. “It’s the English! They’re coming!”
I looked around in shock. Dark Magic, the English? Are they not 100 miles north of us in Scotland?
I ran to the edge of our camp, which was fortified with a wooden palisade. Before I even stood on my tiptoes to look over the palisade, I can already see the English Army, spread out below our camp like a wave washing over the beach. Little regiments of densely packed English battalions had surrounded our camp and had cut off all the Scots that are outside the camp. The sun was now setting, casting a yellowish hue over the entire battle field. The English army was quite large, stretching as far as the eye could see. They filled the battle field with company after company after company. I estimated at least 30,000 men from the banners that I counted.
I knew our men were doomed. With many scots out over miles, completely unprepared and unorganized, many without weapons, the battle was over before it begun. I still wanted to fight on, however, and lead the soldiers that were still in camp at the moment to a glorious last stand in the camp, but Wilmot grabbed me from behind and pulled me onto a horse.
“Quick, the east gate, there is no enemy soldiers there yet. We need to get out before the encirclement closes!” He said, mounting his horse and tugging mine along.
“Wait!” I cried. “No! Not this time, I will not flee again!” I screamed. Wilmot made no reply except for tugging me along even harder, dragging me east. I felt like I was dragged away from England, from my crown, and from Father’s legacy.
With my right hand I whipped out a dagger from my belt and plunged it into the thick neck of my poor horse. The beast whined and shivered, bending own and falling to the ground. Loudly I declared; “I will run no more! I am not any different from you, my brave Scottish warriors. I have no means of escaping. Come, brave Scots, and rally to me. We shall curve a bloody path to freedom through the English encirclement!” I screamed.
Wilmot had wheeled his horse back around now.
“You idiot. I didn’t know you were such a fool. Now that you’ve killed your horse you’ll have to ride mine!” He grunted as he kicked away my dagger. “Don’t be fool hardy and stubborn. That’s how your father lost the war. Your life is more important than theirs.” He pointed at the Scots. “Leave. Retreat is not defeat, for if you retreat you can always come back and fight, but if you die or is captured than you are truly defeated!"
I looked back at all the terrified Scots, stuck deep inside England, facing almost certain death. Many were losing their mind, running around, completely out of control. A surprising number, however, was grim and calm, pulling out their weapons and attempting to form a line. I felt bad abandoning them.
By the time we rode to the gate a force of almost 500 mounted men had gathered around me. Most of them were royalists cavalry men, members of the aristocracy, and seeing that they’re on horses I agreed to let them come with Wilmot and I as we attempt our escape. The gate opened and we rode out into the night, slipping between encircling Parliament battalions.
The night was now pitch black. All around us we can hear the snaps of musket fire, the screams of men and the trampling of feet and hooves. Our company of cavalry rode on, not even knowing where to go, just riding as far away from the camp as possible.
We met several enemy companies along the way, which we engaged with earnest. They were routed, but each with a fight that resulted in some losses. By the end we had but 300 men left. We were then ambushed by English dragoons. We were smashed and a great number of us were killed. Finally I ordered the men to scatter. A group of about 40 men and I rode forward to the relative safety of the nearby hills, hoping that we have finally escaped from the jaws of hell. As we rode away I did a head count. There was Wilmot, Hyde, Stanley, Anthony, Leslie, as well as several minor officers, ministers and about 2 dozen soldiers.
When finally it was clear we were no longer being pursued, at least for the moment, we broke down and rest. I cried. The war had seemed won. I would finally be able to restore the royal house and make father proud, but Cromwell snatched victory away from me like a thief in the night!
By the time we reached the river Tyne, most of the horses were pretty tired, but we have outrun our pursuers, at least for the time’s being. At the little town of Sharpbury we once again came to a stop. Here our horses were given a much needed rest and we bought some refreshments from nearby villagers, who stared at us wide eyed. While drinking our next course of action began to form. All of us were stunned by the sudden change of fortune. Just last night we had been on a triumphant march to York, and now we are 49 fugitives facing a delayed doom. Stanly and the Scots wanted to head north back to Scotland, where they hoped to at least see their families before escaping to France. Wilmot, Hyde, and I wanted to continue going West into Wales, which is notoriously royalist. There we should be able to find a ship to France.
Finally, after we lost almost 20 minutes to debating, it was decided Wilmot and I will continue traveling to wales while the rest of the party will make for Scotland. It is the best course of action, I suppose, for two men traveling along is far more likely to escape England than a party of 49 men. Stanly and his men would be confronted by Parliamentarian dragoons 5 hours after they left us and captured. Stanly would later be executed.
Wilmot and I headed on. I knew what lay ahead must be difficult. Cromwell would surely have found out I have escaped by now and have probably put a handsome price on my head. I was 6 foot 4, and very swarthy. It would not be difficult to recognize me, and I knew we desperately needed disguise. Unfortunately, Wilmot not only refused to be humbled with peasant’s garbs, but also refused to walk like a peasant, insisting on riding his horse. I shrugged and warned him he might doom us, to which he told me he would rather die a noble than live as a peasant. As we traveled West, I realized this is probably the first time I have traveled in the countryside with only one companions. Every other time I was either on a fleeting carriage or traveling with Father’s royal army. Thrills came to me when I realized how easy it would be to find out more about the life of peasants, and why they are so strange and so different from us.
Along the lonely road we met many travelers, some farmers with carts to sell their wares in nearby towns, others pilgrims by the look of it. They often stared openly at us, and I shrank from their sharp glaze, unaccustomed to being stared at. I had already stripped off my armor and coats, of course, walking around in my night shirt and a skirt. Wilmot rode defiantly ahead, dressed in full armor. It was the best of luck that I was at least able to convince him to scratch the royal colors from his chest. By night time we have arrived at the river crossing of Stouridge, which is within 50 miles of Wales. It looked like our escape was now very likely, but I knew better than to assume things like I did the days before Cromwell ambushed us. Of course, our travels will get much harder and slower in a few days, when news of the fugitive king spread across England like a wild fire.
Stouridge was a great granite bridge across the Tyne River. Unfortunately for us, it was over looked by a New Model Army outpost. I was still relieved, however, to see that there were no heavy garrison manning the bridge, for this meant news of my defeat had not spread here yet.
In the dead of the night, we tried to cross the river. The bridge was lit eerie blue by the moon light. I was aware of how bright Wilmot’s armor shone under the moon. Why, it must have glinted like a jewel even from the c
astle! Wilmot crossed, riding his horse, while I lead it like a servant, holding the horse’s mouth closed so it could not whine. Half way across the bridge I heard voices on the wall and froze to a stop. I looked behind me at Wilmot. He too had heard the voice, even behind that thick cushioned steel helmet of his.
“Keep going, slowly…” He mouthed to me. I nodded and continued stepping forward, looking down at my feet like I’ve seen servants do.
“Halt!” Someone called out from the walls. I froze and almost collapsed. Is this it? The end of the Stuart Dynasty? Humbled by a common militia deep in England?
“Who goes there, crossing this bridge in the dead of the night?” The voice called out.
“It is I, Sir Graham and my horse Lancelot!” Wilmot called out coldly, leaving out his servant like nobles often do.
“Are ye for wood ol for gold?” The voice asked.
Wilmot looked at me, baffled. I shrugged, stooping lower and trying to be average height.
“What does that mean?” He asked, confused.
The voice sounded annoyed. “Are you Catholic or Protestant?”
“Oh….Protestant, sir, I’m as protestant as they come.” Wilmot replied. I can see him relaxing.
“Ay? Move along then! You must excuse our questioning sir, here in Stouridge, we have a large Catholic Population.”
“Tis nothing.” Wilmot replied good naturedly.
When we’ve crossed the bridge Wilmot spoke up.
“Do you soldiers know any Catholic households around here? We’re thinking to harbor somewhere for the night and I’d much rather sleep in a Protestant one than the pope’s house.” Wilmot said, winking at me. I looked at him in wonder. This man’s got the wit of a fox.
“Ay, there is. Biggest one here’s a Pendrall family. Don’t even knock on their house. They’ve got five sons, each more blood thirsty than the last. I joined the militia sir, so I could protect my family from their influence.” The man called.
“Ay, and where is their house?” Wilmot asked innocently.
“Up Yonder. Where the rode forks they’ll be a few hundred yards left of you.” The man called out. We must have woken half the village.
“Thank you, I’ll be careful to avoid it.” Wilmot said with a laugh.
As we left the crossing Wilmot whispered to me
“Looks like we’ve got ourselves a safe home to rest in!”
At the fork in the road we turned left, and a few hundred yards in that direction and we indeed saw a building in the distance. It was larger than a cottage, but smaller than a house.
Wilmot dismounted in front of the house and I stooped behind him, since he would be much less recognizable if this family turned out to support Cromwell.
Wilmot knocked several times on the door. There was quite a bit of shuffling and words spoken in hushed tones, and then the door snapped open. A stream of yellow light poured out.
“What do you want?” The man said suspiciously, looking at Wilmot’s armor. He was short and fat and had quite a bit of wrinkles all over his face. He looked very much like Goring, but his features were less crude and more likeable.
“Sir, we heard from the locals that you are a large, Rich, Catholic household, no?” Wilmot asked.
“No, no we’re not. We are catholic, but our wealth have all but dwindled away during the civil war and its after math, under the heavy taxes imposed by Cromwell and his…government.” The man said, almost spitting out the words. “Of course, we do not disrespect the current government.” The man added a little while later, looking a bit scared.
“Its all right, I am no soldier for Cromwell.” Wilmot said. “You have heard of the Young king’s foray into England with a Scottish army, right?” Wilmot asked.
The man nodded slowly. “Come in.” He sighed. “It is not safe to talk out here.”
We stepped in. I marveled at the simplicity of their home. The walls were made of logs, and covered with a layer of dirt. It was cold inside, despite a fire place that blazed in the corner. Even more surprising to me was that the house had almost no adornments of any sort. Tapestries and pictures did not hang from its walls. There was no gold in sight. The ground was not even covered with a carpet, but instead was made of wooden planks.
The two men sat, while I stood with the horse’s bridle in hand, examining what lay around me.
“Now, tell me again, who are you and what is your business?” The man asked. His wrinkled features were loosening.
“This may seem surprising, and this news will put all of us into great risks. Are you sure you want to hear it?” Wilmot asked.
“If it is matters dealing with the King, then I will hear it, no matter what the consequence.” The man declared firmly. “After all, you have declared your loyalty to the King already, so we are on the same side.”
“Very well. This man behind me,” Wilmot said, pointing to me as I studied their floor, “Is his Royal Majesty Charles II of England.” He said blandly. I looked over and bowed.
He was very surprised, but to my relief he accepted it and did not accuse us of lying. He seemed like a man exposed to much surprises in life and no longer felt disbelief at every unlikely thing.
“Ryan, Richard, Henry, Andrew, George?” The man called out. From the hall 5 men emerged. They were of average height and all had hard, worn faces.
“The King of England sits in our Very house. Bow!” He commanded stern facedly.
All the brothers stared at me with wide eyes and knelt on the ground.
“Now, how did you two end up here, in the middle of Cromwell’s England?” The man asked the obvious question.
Wilmot recounted what happened the past week, how the Scottish Army was ambushed by Cromwell and Royalist Scotland may fall soon. The man sighed deeply.
“So you need to escape, to France, I suppose?” He asked me.
“I think so. Ireland will do too, they too have declared for the King already.” Wilmot added.
The man sighed. “I wish I could help you. Really, I do. I will give one of my sons to see you safe in France, away from Cromwell’s reaches, but I am afraid I cannot.” He said, closing his eyes.
I looked at him in surprise. “Why not?”
“Since the King was ousted the Catholics of England had suffered much. Not only do we have to pay outrageous taxes, but Catholics are now prohibited from traveling more than five miles from their homes.” The man replied. “If we tried to help you, we will only put our village into unnecessary danger.” He sighed.
I looked at Wilmot. Both of us are unsure what to do.
“I’m afraid you must find a royalist Protestant, where ever one may be. Most were forced to swear allegiance to Cromwell or face exile; thus I will not count on them helping you either.” The man sighed.
“But Father, we must help them!” One of the brothers knelt on the ground said, looking up.
“Ay, I would rather lose my life than the see the King lose his in our house!” Another brother said.
The old man laughed. “Look how brave my sons are. Very well. If you boys wish to save the King, I suppose you all are too old for me to tell you no. I am too old to take part. Be safe!” He warned them.
The brothers nodded yes. The oldest one, Richard, I’m guessing, walked over to me.
“Sire, we will swear our lives for your safety, but you will need a make over. You will not feel terrible, I suppose, if we change your appearance a slight bit?” He asked. I looked at him, confused for a moment by the simplicity of his words, and then nodded, slightly uncertainly.
“Not today though, Richard.” The father called out. “Let the King rest, he must be tired from traveling all day. Are you two hungry?” He asked sleepily.
“No….we stopped for a bit on the way here.” Wilmot replied. “And neither of us have the appetite right now.”
“Very well. You may sleep in my bed. I’ll lay out in blanket in the boys’ room tonight.” He said, rising. “George, stay up tonight and kill one
of the chickens. We can’t feed the King off porridge.” He yawned, rose, and started walking to bed. It was very late, and indeed I was very tired.
Master Pendrall’s bed was fair, and I’ve actually slept on worse. There were several layers of blankets and a large pillow, enough for me to fall asleep on quickly after the long ordeal of the day.
Early next morning I was woken by George. All of the brothers were up already, and when I stepped out of Master Pendrall’s room I saw them assembled outside, all grinning. They bowed to me and paid me their compliments, sounding very much like the throng of St. James.
“Your Majesty, we will need to make you look like a common peasant. We can’t do anything to your height, but we can change your face and your dress.” They promised. For the next hour two of the brothers cut my neat black locks of hair short and probably messily on purpose so I look like a common peasant. Mother would have screamed to see my cavalier curls turned into the snippets of monks. They then mushed dirt all over my face, making it look like I have never bathed in my life. Finally they stripped me of a shirt and gave me a coarse wood cutter’s gown to wear. I looked just like a wood cutter’s son and felt like one too.
By noon, and after a fair meal of chicken broth the five brothers led me on my journey west. About five miles of the journey 3 of the brothers peeled off, as the 5 brothers were well known in the surroundings and they can’t be seen to travel more than five miles from their home.
Richard took me one way, while George took Wilmot another. We were to meet again at the inn of a friend of the Pendralls.
As Richard and I traveled, the barrier between as gradually cooled, and Richard began addressing me like a friend instead of the King. He told me stories to pass the time, many of which were simple and not very literary, but had a clear moral and were more realistic than the ones Buckingham told to Thumbs and I. Sometimes I vowed that if I was ever returned to the throne, I would remember the lessons learned in these stories.
I also missed Thumbs dearly. We had stopped corresponding before the Civil War begun, and I had stopped hearing from him since. I suppose he is somewhere in France right now. Our fallout and arguments seemed so trivial now. He had lost his father at the same time that he was exposed to the realities of the world in the cruelest way possible. It was my duty to comfort him, my turn to be there for him, yet I branded him as boring and a waste of my time, and deserted him. His support, his friendship and humor would be so helpful now in these trying times.
On most of our trip, the road was empty. Now and then we’d meet a pilgrim, a farmer, or workmen, all of whom paid us no attention. Then, suddenly, we were stopped by a stout miller with a cudgel in his hand. He was a short, ugly man with a large plump nose and small eyes. As we approached he gave us a few glances before suddenly remarking
“Say, aren’t you that dog Pendrall’s son?” He asked, his words as crude as the mouth and jutting teeth that formed them.
Richard attempted to ignore him, turning his face away and marching on.
“Hey, stop! Aren’t you catholic? Are ye breaking the law?” The miller said, turning from his track and walking after us. We picked up our pace.
“Come back, don’t you think you can flee from me!” Cried the miller, raising his cudgel as he picked up his pace. “Cromwell promised 10 pence to any man that help enforce the law. I’ll catch you two culprits!” He screamed.
We broke into a run. Richard was very fast, his legs carrying him along despite his short stature. I ran after him in great strides, but before long I was getting tired. The miller, though not too fast, pursued after us with the determination of a blood hound. The race continued for several minutes, before the miller finally grew tired and hurled his cudgel at us. It snapped across Richard’s back and caused the boy to stumble, but he soon regained his stride and ran on, with the miller stopping in his tracks and hurling curses at our retreating forms. I was grateful as his figure grew smaller and smaller behind us, but I knew he would raise the alarm, and we would soon have more troops after us!
By noon we had reached the river Severan, which separated Wales from England. I was about to cross the ford when Richard tackled me down.
“You idiot, look before you act!” He whispered.
I looked. Indeed he was right. Prone on the other bank of the river were dozens of Parliamentary musketeers, their plumed hats waving in the air.
“Its too heavily guarded. Quite logical. Cromwell will obviously expect you to flee to Wales. We’ll never get across.” Richard muttered to himself.
I looked on, confused. Wales lay only 100 meters away, but I cannot get there! I felt like a little boy again, staring at mother’s teats and wondering why I cannot suck on it.
About 5 miles from the river Severn, which separated England from Wales, we came upon the inn of Mrs.Carlis, the wife of a sergeant who fought under me at Worcester. There was not a very large royalist population in this town, but I figured if Mrs.Carlis is not a royalist, no one in the town is. Luckily, I was right, and she was a royalist by heart, and anxious to find news about her husband, whose fate remains uncertain.
She was a curtious woman, with small sharp eyes and a cavalier attitude. As we had tea, the clattering of hooves became evident. A horse was riding up the road to the house, and on it sat an unarmed traveler clad in brown.
“Do you have a rifle anywhere?” Richard asked, looking at Mrs.Carlis anxiously.
“Its all good, I think that’s Mr.Carlis!” She said, staring hard at the figure and the way he sat on his horse.
Indeed it was Mr.Carlis, but behind him, about 200 yards down he was followed by about 20 Cromwell troopers, clad in black, steel armor shining brightly in the sun.
Mr.Carlis entered first. He was surprised to find the King at his house, but none the less acted with a cool head.
“It’s the dragoons. Oh, woe be to us. Of all the people in England this could happen to, we’re the ones caught helping the King!” Mrs.Carlis wailed.
“Quick, where could we hide?” Richard demanded.
“Out the back! The woods are to the back. They’ll never find you in there!” Mrs.Carlis replied.
“But the woods will be the first place they comb for once they search the house!” Countered Mr.Carlis.
“In the oak then!” Said Mrs.Carlis, looking at her husband for approval.
“I don’t know…” Mr.Carlis said uncertainly. “It would be…very unlikely for them to look there….such an inconspicuous place for a king.” He said, scratching his chin. “I’ll hold them off, and lead their suspicion to the woods to make it fool proof.
“The oak it is then!” Said Richard.
He led me out back. Indeed there was a fat oak tree there, sitting on the edge of the farm. Behind it lie the woods. The oak tree was very large. Its branches was like one of those fancy hairdos I see the French Ladies wear in France. Richard climbed up and helped me up. I figured he came here to play as a boy, before Catholics were banned from traveling in England.
We waited, listening on the conversation. I knew I should be paying attention, but I was exhausted, and quickly fell asleep, my head resting on the arm of Richard.
When I woke up it was night, and Richard was still holding up my head so I do not fall over and off the tree. He was awake and standing guard.
“Where are they?” I whispered to Richard.
“Searching the woods. They didn’t think to look up here.” He said quietly.
“What happened to Carlis?” I asked.
“Arrested. Two troopers took him away.” Richard sighed.
“Arrested?” I asked. My heart throbbed. Poor man!
“Its….a price to pay, but at least he was glad he helped you escape.” Pendrall said.
“Really? He wanted to help me that much?” I asked uncertainly.
“Yes…so do I. If they do find us, I will fight to the death to buy you time.” Pendrall said. “Because you are our last hope, our only hope for fairness and equality. God i
s on our side!” He declared.
I looked back at him sadly.
“But restoration is not possible. The Scots was my last mean of regaining the throne. Now that they are crushed___”
“No, you must not say that!” Pendrall warned. “You must never give up. Have you ever heard of the story of Robert the Bruce and the Spider?” He asked.
I shook my head. No. I was aware Robert the Bruce was a Scottish King, but I recall nothing about any spider.
“You haven’t heard of this story?” Pendrall asked, surprised. “Oh well, its fascinating. Here we go; Robert the Bruce was an Ancient Scottish king fighting for independence against the English. In one great battle his army was surrounded and crushed by the English. Robert’s body guards cut their way through the English and brought him out of the battle safely, and they were forced to hide in a nearby cave to take refuge from the English. Scotland looked like it was doomed, and Robert contemplated suicide. As he drew his sword and brought it to his neck, he saw the silhouette of a spider, attempting to make a web in the corner of the cave. Robert put down his sword, watching as the spider spun and spun, constructing a fine patch of silk, complete with strong support strands fastened to the walls of the cave. Just as the spider was spinning one last support strand, a cold gust of wind blew through the cave and turned the web into tatters!
Robert thought this was a symbol of his own life, how his life work was destroyed by one swift turn of fortune. As he lifted his sword again his eyes were drawn again to the spider. It had started over, resiliently working at the web again. Robert watched in fascination as the little spider persistently spun its web again and again, never giving up though each time his half-finished web was destroyed by the wind. Finally, on the eighth try, the spider completed all the strands and the wind could not budge its work. It then sat, content and patient, waiting for flies to get trapped within its hard work.
Robert was fascinated how this tiny, weak little spider would tirelessly try, again and again, never giving up, while he, young and strong, the King of all Scotland, would give up after one disaster. He took up courage and rode back to Scotland, working like a mad man, and eventually he succeeded in defeating the superior English and acquired Scottish Independence.” Pendrall said with a nod. “And it was because of him that Scotland, even today, is always so rebellious from the English. They always try, again and again, to acquire their independence, no matter what the odds are.”
I was fascinated. Robert the Bruce, one of my ancestors. His situation was exactly like mine, and he did not give up! Surely I can reach success too, if I only try! I looked behind me at Pendrall. I could hardly contain myself. I wanted to get off and start working for restoration right this moment! I felt like I could accomplish anything, now that Richard as gifted me the will to work and try hard.
I made a move to get off the tree.
“What are doing?” Pendrall demanded, not contemplating my reaction to his story.
“I want to head for Wales right now! When I get to France I’m going to ask Louis to declare war on England and get my throne back!” I declared.
Richard gave a little laugh. “Good Grief, did my story cause you to act this way? Very well, get off slowly, but be careful! The soldiers may still be in these woods!”
By morning we were on our way to the home of a prominent Royalist of the area, the estate of Thomas Whitegreave. Wilmot and the rest of the Pendrall brothers were supposed to meet us there, as well as several other catholic and royalists in the region. My peasant shoes have worn away from the long walk of the past two days, and the soft skin of my foot was cut and bruised from the trip. I looked in wonder at Richard’s calloused feet, completely fine even though he was walking bare feet. For me, every step was a pain, and lifting a foot off the ground was like trying to pick up a squashed cake as delicately as possible off a kitchen floor.
When we arrived at Whitegreave’s, we met leading royalists of the area. A catholic priest bathed my feet while the others discussed what we could do. Wales was out of picture, since it would probably be covered with prowling bands of dragoons and ambushes.
One of the men suggested we travel south to Bristol, before taking a ship to France. Many of the royalists approved of it, since Cromwell would never expect me to travel south, in the direction of London!
For meal tonight we had bony chicken and porridge. I waited hungrily at their dining table, ignoring the rough wood stools that we sat on and our barnlike surroundings.
When the potridge was finally heated it was served to us in wooden bowls with no spoons. I held myself back from wolfing it down while I waited for Whitegreave to fetch their silverware, but none came. I looked up in surprise.
“You must excuse us. We are not so rich, and eat with our hands.” Whitegreave said, rather embarrassedly, looking down at the ground. I didn’t know what to say.
“It’s…okay, I eat with my hands all the time.” I lied, looking uncertainly at the gruel below us.
Everyone else, even Wilmot, was swallowing it down, and I hadn’t sat down for a meal since the battle, and thus I let a mouth full flow into my mouth. It was vile, putrid, so dry and coarse to the throat I found it impossible to swallow. Even in a porridge form, it sucked moisture and taste right out of my mouth. I almost cried from the blandness. It was like trying to swallow hard bread! I tried my best to hide my disgust though, making faces to disguise my horror. Then it struck me. These peasants have to put up with this kind of food every day! They don’t have anything better! The chicken they served was probably for Christmas!
I looked at the poor family as they ate. I longed to fish out a few gold coins from my purse to end their troubles, but when my hand traveled to my pocket, my fingers only groped the coarse material of the woodman’s shirt. I had no gold coins, I was no body!
I looked down bitterly. Perhaps this porridge is my life. I still wanted to be restored to the throne, but I realized I must swallow down bitterness and hardships if I am to succeed.
The next day we saw a large band of me prowl by. They knocked on the door but we did not open it, for they looked wild. They left after a while. One of them had my banner sewn to the back of his shirt. Survivors from Worcester. I longed to harbor these poor men, but I knew how much it would put us in risk. There would definitely be cavalry chasing these men. We shouldn’t draw suspicious on ourselves, especially if these men will lead the pursuing cavalry away from us.
The next day pursuing cavalry did arrive at our gate. They asked questions, and then tried to arrest Whiteworth for fighting at Worcester. Whiteworth assured them he hadn’t, and after a heated argument he was finally believed, and he pointed the direction of the Scots.
Very next day we left with the Pendrall brothers, Whiteworth, and his daughter, a girl named Jane. Jane was a Parliamentarian camp follower, and because of that she has a military pass that could get us pretty far in England without being challenged by garrisons. We also took a long an old mill horse we received from a local miller, which I rode on. Wilmot rode ahead with his charger in his full armor, deterring any men we meet by shouting out loudly that he is out hunting, and pretending to be a Parliamentary noble.
As we rode along I grew more and more incensed by the countryside. It was a lazy, warm world, and I rather liked it. As I traveled with the royalists I thought about all the things Buckingham told me about the peasants and I now realized they couldn’t be true. No peasants have guns because all peasants dislike guns? Com’on. Peasants never eat meat because they didn’t like me? Really? I wished I had paid more attention to the lives of peasants and studied their life more while I was young, when I didn’t have any duties but to enjoy. I swore if I ever became king again I will pay more attention to the lower class, not just the nobles in London. Halfway, as I rode, my horse stumbled, and its horseshoe fell off. I almost fell and would have probably broken something, but one of the Pendralls saved my skin. He laughed.
“Well, who could blame the beast? It was carry
ing with it the weight of three kingdoms!”
Everyone burst out laughing. I looked around, amazed. These men, who are risking their lives for me even now, have actually become my friend!
WE take the horse to the blacksmith, who hammer on the shoe. I ask him
“Have you heard any news?”
“News? In what area?” He asked.
“About, say, the King and his Scottish rebellions?”
“Hurmph, I do not know if the King was captured, but I do know a great deal of his generals were!” He relied.
“Oh really? That is good news! If they capture that rogue of a king he deserves to be hung!” I told him, judging his reaction.
“You speak like an honest man, gentleman!” The man replied back merrily.
“Ay, glad to be it” I replied back, looking at the black smith and thinking if I could remember his face and punish him when my restoration comes…..if my restoration ever comes.
About 2 hours later the horse’s shoe was fixed and we went on our way again. Whiteworth was really fidgety the entire way and he worried about the rebel cavalry catching up. It would not take long for Cromwell to figure out we are not going to Wales, and for him to extend the search to all over England. By that time we need to be in France. Mean, I work in the kitchen sir
2 Weeks later we had arrived outside the walls of Bristol. Bristol was a much contested city in the civil war. It was one of the biggest ports in England, and was at times strongholds of both factions. Thus, there was a good amount of royalists, but also a good amount of Parliamentarians in the city. As we entered, we found a good amount of villagers crowding the gates. They looked like the happiest bunch, leaping about in costumes, around a fire they’ve built in the middle of the street. The soldiers at guard did nothing to stop them, simply stood back and watched with amusement. They were singing.
“Woe be the day that the king was born,
Joy to the day that the King was killed!” They shouted.
My heart curled up. Is this what they hold my father at? He’s dead now, gutted like a common animal, and yet they will still not let him alone? I longed to draw my sword and gut them, but I knew I’d be arrested by the men standing guard at the gate.
Then I heard the next two lines of their song.
“Leading an army of rogues to invade fair England
His arse was kicked at bloody Worecester!” They sung.
I looked on in surprise. Are they talking about me? But I am not dead!
“The King is dead, the King is dead, the King is dead” They shouted now, all in Unison.
I gave a small laugh. Is this how it is? They think I’m dead?
“What are you men singing of?” Asked Wilmot bravely, taking the initiative, since they are sure to challenge us.
“The King is dead!” They sung. “He was beat in a great battle by Cromwell at Worcester!”
“Oh really?” I couldn’t hold myself back any longer and blurted out.
“Well yes, good gentleman! A man just arrived from London telling us so! They say he was killed by a stray musket ball!” One of the villagers claimed. “What a holy musket ball, to end all of England’s troubles.”
“Yes, and of course they’d recognize him! They say he’s tall, dark as a Negro, and mean as the devil.”
I gave a small laugh. I look like Thomas Fairfax? I didn’t shrink from that name as I did from the name of many who fought against father. Fairfax was an honorable opponent and utterly denounced Parliament’s decision to execute the King. He was later forced to retire by Cromwell for that.
The villagers now focused on us.
“Where are you gents be headed?” They asked.
“We’re going to the house of a certain colonel Mon___” I said out loud accidently.
“What he meant was we’re going to the beaches before traveling to London!”
The leader of the villagers narrowed his eyes at us.
“Colonel Monck eh?” He gave a laugh. “They say many of the King’s supporters survived the battle. Well, we don’t like that kind here in Bristol!” He snorted.
Before I had a chance to say anything else, Wilmot grabbed my hand dragged me away. The Pendralls followed us nervously.
George Monck was a friend of Colonel Whiteworth during the war. He declared for the King but after the war he was forced to swear allegiance to Parliament. Since then he has worked as a administrator, than Governor in Scotland, building his way up through good work. He was rumored to have a skillful eye that can see people’s intentions, and exploit that with his equally skillful tongue. We were not certain whether he will harbor me or not, but it is well known he dislikes working for Cromwell, and thus he is the best chance we got. When we arrived at his house that night, there was a dinner party there and many guests, both royalists and Protestants, were invited. As a result, I took the disguise of a servant to avoid the social gatherings that the nobles at the party are subjected too. Whiteworth spent his time casually with the lord of the house, supposedly asking for ships to take to France, while all my companions loitered in the gardens outside. I entered the kitchen alone, ordered by the constable to prepare meals for the night.
When I arrived I was confronted by the master cook, who immediately asked me what I specialize in. I looked at him in surprise.
He was a huge, rotund man, with a fat glob under his neck and looked rather like an ugly rooster.
“I asked, are you a work servant or are you one of those useless masters of jokes and revelry?” He demanded again, angrily.
“I…..I mean, I work in the kitchen, sir!” I replied, aware that all eyes of the kitchen were on me.
“Tell me the first time! Now get to work. Work the spit for a while. Chicken’s due to come off in 10 minutes!” He said, pointing to the corner of the kitchen. I nodded and walked that way, grateful to be off the center of attention.
I walked over to the stove. I knew what the spit was. A chicken as impaled on a jack, and the jack was placed on a rack, where it is continuously turned so the chicken is cooked. I had often snatched slivers of half cooked meat from the jack while raiding the royal kitchen.
Another man was standing there, turning the jack. He looked maxed out. Sweat covered his face and he had to stop every once in a while to wipe it from his brows so the stinging fluids do not get into his eyes. He looked relieved to see my arrival.
“Work this for me a bit, while I get a drink.” He said. I nodded. I had no idea how to work the thing, but I suppose one just turn it around and around so the meat doesn’t get it charred. I put my hand around the black handle. It was warm. I attempted to give it a turn. The jack didn’t budge. I tried again, with more force this time. The jack fell off the rack and into the flames. Quickly with both hands I lifted up the meat, and to my relief it was not charred. I put the jack back on the rack and tried again to turn it. Each time I tried, however, the meat just fell into the fire again. I always lifted it off right away, but every time it fell the juice in the meat sizzled away, and I knew this meat dish wouldn’t be very tasty.
“Are you sure you know how to work this thing!” The chef said as he walked back from the bucket, asking me suspiciously.
“No, not really.” I replied coolly. “From where I came from, we didn’t have much meat. What little we ate each year was put into a broth, so I never worked the jack.” I lied.
He nodded, satisfied with my explanation, and quietly took over. I sighed and almost gave myself a pat on the back for my excellent performance. I was catching on quickly.
Over the next several days I stayed over at Trent’s house, while my friends attempted to find me a ferry to France. Royalist spies all over England confirmed Cromwell was expanding the search to all of England. Check points were set up at road intersections, and companies of dragoon patrol around England at random, stopping travelers to check to see if they’ve heard about the King, or, as they call me, the rogue leader of an invading Scottish Army.
After several d
ays of waiting in Monck’s house, Wilmot was finally able to find a man willing to take me to France. In some ways the deal was too good to be true. He only demanded 90 pounds from us though he would have gotten at least 250 pounds if he handed us over to Cromwell. When we asked him about this he assured us he was a staunch royalist. The next morning, however, when we traveled to the dock on the back of a farmer’s hay cart, we found the dock surrounded by soldiers, looking into the crowd nervously. Luckily, the Pendralls were nearby and they knocked over several nearby apple carts, allowing us to get away unnoticed.
Finally, after asking a string of royalists that Monck referred us to, we were able to find a Royalist Captain in procession of a ship. To be safe, we didn’t tell him I was the king. He demanded 70 pounds for the passage as a result, and offered to pick us up at a local inn at night. We went to the inn. As Wilmot gave him the money and he began to walk toward the exit to lead us to his ship, a band of soldiers entered the inn. I thought they were coming for me, and almost told Wilmot to draw his sword. Luckily, they were only here for a drink with several local women, one of which was very pregnant. As we got up once again to leave, however, the innkeeper, who was drunk, recognized me and dropped down to his knees.
“Your Royal majesty!” He cried out. I glanced at him in hate. He looked ike a decent man, and might have been a royalist during the war, but in his drunken bout he has doomed me! I quickly hid my face behind a cowl and attempted to mingle into the crowds. Meanwhile the soldiers began to look around, drawing their swords and sweeping through the room.
“The King is in my store! The King has been in my store!” The inn keeper shouted, adding to the mayhem. I slipped into a corner of the room and squatted there, facing the corner, hoping I looked like a barrel of ale. I thought I was caught for sure.
Suddenly one of the women screamed.
“Oh, my baby….its coming out.”
Her wild shierkes generated as much excitement as the innkAll the soldiers rushed to help her out. A few threw a few last glances back, but I was safe. A clue from God maybe. Perhaps he supported restoration.
I walked away, very dangerous. I knew the tavern keeper would not be able to keep his mouth shut. Soon there’d be more regiments of dragoons in here than those that fought at Worcester.
Later that day we got another trip arranged. 70 pounds will get me to France. The next day we boarded the ship. He recognized me and demanded 200 pounds. We agreed. Just as we left a regiment of Parliamentary dragoons caught upon us. As we sailed away they dismounted and got on their own ship, chasing after us. Luckily our was slightly faster, and we outran them, sailing to freedom in France.
As we sailed away from the emerald isles once more, I couldn’t help but appreciate what has changed. I was now a completely different man. The first time we left, I was a young boy fleeing to safety I had no sympathy for the peasantry, and was as innocent and naïve as a newborn chick. Now I knew the true nature of the world, how one has to be tough to survive. Scotland, having lost most of its trained militia at Worcester, was forever subdued. However, I felt like I gained more this time around. I was now smarter, I had more friends, and I felt much tougher. Perhaps I was not meant, not prepared to be king just yet, but I was still young. Cromwell was getting older and older. I now had definite plans to eventually become the King.
