My dark thoughts could not have been further from the truth. It was the King who was to be executed.
Of course I knew about the King’s trial. But since I never left the house, I knew little else. Nor cared. I vaguely assumed that, whatever the findings of the court, the proceedings would end with the King’s abdication.
We met in Lucy’s salon, with her glittering Van Dyck of Charles on one side of the room, and, on the other, the rather scruffy portrait of Cromwell by the follower of an artist whose name Lucy always forgot. When I entered, Ireton was viewing the contrast with his pale smile, but made no comment. He was courteous to a fault. I had never seen him more nervous.
He said the King had refused to plead. He had laughed at his judges. He had argued that a small fraction of the Lower House – I could almost hear Charles’s contempt in the emphasis – elected eight years before, had no mandate to try him. How could the people try the King? Rex est Lex – the King is the Law. I wondered, fleetingly, why I admired the courage and style of the King’s convictions, while hating those convictions; and why, although Ireton’s beliefs were broadly mine, I loathed his manner of expressing them, like a small-town lawyer calling in a debt.
Ireton had expected the King to do what he would have done: to accept the court’s jurisdiction to save his life. The trial could have proceeded and Charles would have abdicated. The refusal to plead meant yet another stalemate. I could hear Cromwell’s harsh, irate tones, when Ireton told me of his reaction in private. Was there to be no end to it? The King would not compromise. Could not be trusted. God had judged him by his defeat in war. Twice. God would not be so patient with his people a third time. Charles Stuart must go to the block.
I had no idea why Ireton was telling me this, or why he now paced the gallery, sliding glances at me, and why, never at a loss for words, he said nothing for some time. It was only when I heard Jane calling me and said I must go that he twisted his hands together, cleared his throat and said that he would appreciate my signature.
I stared at him, bewildered. ‘My … my signature?’
‘On the King’s death warrant.’
I laughed in his face. ‘Tom Neave’s signature? On the death warrant of the King of England?’
‘Of course not,’ he said tartly. ‘Lord Stonehouse’s signature.’
I grew even more confused. ‘Lord Stonehouse is dead.’
‘I mean you.’
‘Me? I am not Lord Stonehouse.’
‘You could be.’
Gradually it dawned on me that he was not making some macabre joke, but was deadly serious. When it became known that Cromwell was determined to prosecute the King and a brief had been prepared, the Inns of Court emptied overnight. Barristers fell ill, were away, or on other business. Only one barrister was found prepared to take the brief. I gathered from Ireton that ailments, and other problems, were creating similar difficulties in amassing the number and, above all, the quality of signatures on the death warrant.
I cut him short. I told him that even if I wished to be Lord Stonehouse, which I did not, it was impossible. The estate and the title were my father’s.
‘He is in France. If the King is executed, he has no one to support his claim.’
‘He has my grandfather’s will.’
‘There is another will.’
That took my breath away. As usual, Ireton’s intelligence was impeccable, even if his judgement on how I would react was not. He had seen Roger Hanmer, the solicitor present at my grandfather’s death. By a thorough, diligent search of precedence, he had found a case for breaking the entail that left the estate to the eldest son.
‘That other will was not signed,’ I said.
Ireton looked puzzled. ‘I am told it was signed and witnessed before he died.’
I looked at Ireton with contempt. I believed that Charles Stuart, who had laughed at his judges and shown no remorse for the thousands killed and families destroyed, deserved to die. But I had no love for Cromwell and Ireton after their crushing of the Levellers. I told Ireton I would not do it. He thought I was bargaining. While he was offering me some preferment as an additional inducement, there was a confused argument outside and the door opened.
Anne was standing in the doorway, swaying slightly. Her nightdress hung about her wasted figure. Her long hair, prematurely streaked with grey, drifted about her shoulders. Her voice was thin and halting, but this only gave it a curious kind of majesty, which her mentor, Lucy, could not have bettered.
‘Mr Ireton … it is good of you to come at last.’
Jane, hovering behind her, tried to stop her, but Anne shook her off and came forward towards me.
‘Thomas … is Mr Ireton being attended to?’
Her legs gave way, and I just managed to catch her before she struck the floor.
38
I signed. I joined the other fifty-nine names on the death warrant; some men of political conviction like the lawyer Roger Bradshaw, who presided over the trial; some lecherous rogues like Henry Marten; some radical hotheads like the young Lord Grey of Gorby, the only peer on the list; some pious men like Edward Whalley, who believed that God guided his pen, and some like me, whose motives were known only to themselves.
At least, when I dipped the quill in the ink, I finally knew – or determined – who I was when I signed my name: Sir Thomas Stonehouse. I had refused the peerage so I could enter the Commons where I had once run with the words that I thought would change the world, although now I could scarce remember them. Anne would have objected if she had been aware of it, but she was aware of little, except that I was Thomas again. I believe she clung on to life because of Ireton’s visit, and because, once more, I had a good tailor.
I had arranged alterations for the suit I had ordered from Mr Pepys two years before, but been unable to pay for when Lord Stonehouse withdrew my allowance. Mr Pepys had looked askance at the dark green cloth which he said was not fitted for a funeral, let alone the King’s execution, but I had no time for such niceties. Cromwell wanted the axe to fall as soon as the ink and the seals dried on the warrant and the sentence was passed. A scaffold was hurriedly knocked up in Whitehall and the execution scheduled for noon on 30th January 1649.
Waking up that morning, I was already writing the pamphlet in my head – a disreputable and grisly habit it would take years to expunge – when the thought struck me. If a King died, his successor was always proclaimed immediately. King Charles’s son, who had fled to Holland, would certainly declare himself King, but it would be a disaster if anyone made such a proclamation in London. I told myself Cromwell must have thought of this, but when I mentioned it to Ireton he went white. Tragedy became farce. The proceedings were delayed while enough compliant MPs were found and shuttled to Westminster to pass an Act making any such proclamation of a successor illegal.
Assuming the execution would go ahead despite the delay, I went to collect my suit from Mr Pepys, as previously agreed. Anne would not forgive me if I failed to look presentable at such an occasion.
‘Will it go wrong, sir?’ said a voice in my ear.
It was young Samuel Pepys, my tailor’s son. The money Pepys had earned from his scissors had enabled him to send Samuel to St Paul’s.
‘Should you not be at school?’ I said sternly.
‘We were sent home,’ he said evasively, then, with increasing anxiety, ‘Is it not going to happen?’
‘Do you want it to?’
‘Indeed I do, sir!’ He must have been about fifteen, his voice scarcely broken. He stood there, his hands clenched and his cheeks flushed. ‘If I had to deliver a sermon on him, the text would be: “The memory of the wicked shall rot”.’
I laughed at his enthusiasm, but there was little else to laugh at that morning. I paid Mr Pepys for the suit and took some comfort from possessing the means to do so. I was relieved, too, by the knowledge that a good tailor will gain a man admittance to places that would otherwise be closed to him.
One of those place
s was a prominent position at the King’s execution. Ireton as usual sat silent and composed, only just a little paler than usual.
There was a very sharp wind that day, cutting across the Thames from the east, and the King wore an extra shirt, so his shivering could not be mistaken for fear. He said his prayers, wished his children goodbye and walked through the banqueting hall of the Palace of Whitehall, under the Rubens ceiling panel of Solomon, portraying the divine power of Kings.
On the scaffold, added to his natural nobility was a sense of purpose he had never found on the throne. It was fuelled by the same stubborn inflexibility that had brought him there. The few words I heard that were not scattered by that biting east wind were that he was not an enemy of the people, but a martyr for them. He had governed to protect the people’s lives and goods – but government itself, or a share in that government, was not a matter for them.
When the axe fell, a horrified groan spread through the crowd. Young Samuel, in spite of his radical bluster, went pale and clutched at my hand. Many groaned because they felt God’s laws had been desecrated. I groaned for all the lives lost and at how the King’s stupidity became martyrdom in one moment of theatre. Cromwell was not there. He detested theatre. As inflexible in his own way as the King, he was at prayers. I groaned for the past, for all my old fellow-pamphleteers like Crop-Eared-Jack, on the edge of the crowd as I had once been, for, as the executioner held the head aloft, I knew that the King, now he could no longer speak, had all the best lines, the most compelling stories, and could do no wrong.
Mr Ink was really too grand for it these days, with a corpulent belly and clean collar and cuffs, but he was kind enough to take down my maiden speech in the House, which was on the subject of censorship. Now I sat in Lord Stonehouse’s chair in Queen Street, I saw an urgent need for censorship as I had never done on the other side. We were the pariah state Europe, horrified at the execution of an anointed King. We had enemies not only without, but within, in Ireland and Scotland. I was Secretary for Intelligence and Special Affairs – in short, as Lord Stonehouse had once been, spymaster.
I asked Mr Ink if he remembered the words which he once told me would change the world. He was silent for a while, his hands linked over his belly, before saying, ‘Well, Sir Thomas, I do believe now that it is the words that change. The world never changes.’
My main concern was Anne. She was physically better, but had a strange vacancy about her, staring at people as if she was always on the point of remembering something. I took her, for the first time, to Highpoint, in the hope that the country air would revive her. It was a mistake, driving her even further into her shell. It was as if she had expended all her energy in her desire for the place, and had not a shred left to enjoy it. I hated the place. It was half a ruin, pillars pitted by musket balls, the park overgrown, and the fountains choked. Black drapes still hung in one neglected wing, marking Lord Stonehouse’s death. Anne stared at it in bewildered dismay. A dream that had sustained her all those years had turned out to be a nightmare.
I had taken her to Highpoint on impulse and without warning Mr Fawcett, the house steward, who continued to regard me as a usurper. His frog-like eyes gaped at me before he silently summoned the servants to stand in line and greet us. Anne shrank away. She was wearing the dress she had worn the night Lord Stonehouse died, which she refused to be parted with. It was threadbare and the servants looked better dressed than she was. I put my arm round her. My heart ached for her as she clung to me. She meant more to me than anything I strived for and I was glad to turn my back on that cursed place. If she was rid of her obsession with it, it could go to rack and ruin for all I cared. I led her back to the carriage, intending to stay at the Stonehouse Arms before returning to London.
But we could not find Luke.
He had been seen climbing a tree. A servant had chased him along the gallery. Eventually we found him in the stables, entranced by the ostler, who had lost an eye at Dunbar and who greeted him by saying, ‘I see we have another wounded warrior. Let me look at thy badge of courage.’
From that instant, Luke stopped hiding his face. He refused to leave Highpoint. He loved the ruin of it.
‘Is this ours? And this? What? All of it?’
The servants came alive. With his natural arrogance, they accepted Luke as a Stonehouse, in a way they never accepted me. I made Jane housekeeper, as her mother had been, and Scogman steward. He learned to write. His hand was execrable but he knew his rogues, the cheats who had leeched the estate to decay. Gradually, the place recovered and, as it did, so did Anne. I was rarely there. While Cromwell subjugated first Ireland, then Scotland, I protected his back. Every nation plotted against the Protectorate, as we had become. From Queen Street, reporting to Secretary of State John Thurloe, I ran the most formidable network of double agents and informers in Europe. By the mid-1650s, we were the most feared nation in Europe.
Each time I returned to Highpoint, my heart beat faster. It was as if our love was being rebuilt along with the house and Anne’s health. She planned everything. The servants and the tenants began to respect her, then, to my astonishment, to love her.
Lady Stonehouse was said to be a lady and not a lady. She had the perfect manners inculcated in her by Lucy, who came to stay after I had secured her release from the Tower. Yet she could talk to the architect about the giant pilastered centrepiece of the rebuilt wing and to a tenant about a stillbirth, or a sick cow. I was immensely proud of her and, if possible, more in love with her than ever.
I longed for another child. We had not slept together since her illness, and I approached her with the same diffidence I had displayed when I first met her. She wished for a little more time. Her health was still fragile. Then, although she had always scorned her mother, who would not leave her bed if her astrologer warned her the signs were inauspicious, she consulted with one, who invariably found, on the week of my visit, that Saturn was in opposition to Venus.
When the restored wing was opened, the county was invited. It was a great success and, flushed with that and too much wine, I went to Anne’s room when she was preparing for bed. As awkward as the callow apprentice I once was, I read the first poem I ever wrote her, ending, ‘I hope that my love for thee may make your eyes see me.’
She gave me a wicked smile, just as she used to, and asked me if I ever realised when she had first fallen in love with me. My heart pounded and, as she seemed to regret saying it, I begged her to tell me. As fired by the evening and the wine as I was, she said it was when she first discovered the accounts book in her father’s office, marked with a letter ‘T’, and realised there was more to me than my ugly feet.
She told it as a joke, but it took root. I remembered her choking tears when she had told me she would not marry me, because she stood in the way of my inheritance. Did that not show she loved me? But then, by what I no longer saw as a coincidence, Lucy had appeared to take her to the party where she would be introduced to Lord Stonehouse. Just as in the accounts book, did Anne not make her own calculations?
When I raised it, she laughed and kissed me, and I dismissed it. What did it matter? She made no more excuses, and, in the following months, never refused me her bed, but it felt dutiful, a masquerade. The child never came. I suspected she took something to prevent it, but could never prove it.
In spite of – perhaps because of – the fact that we rarely saw one another, we were judged the perfect married couple. Cromwell never disbanded the army and in the county, where all the junior officers were in love with her, Anne glittered like an exquisitely cut jewel. In London she impressed Cromwell with her sober mien and godliness, which, like her high-crowned Puritan hat, she took off with a sigh of relief on returning to Highpoint.
All this time, I worked harder than ever. In late autumn – it was always late autumn, when the candles were lit early and cold crept into old wounds, that I became first edgy, then unbearable – I would tell Mr Cole I must on no account be disturbed. From a room no servant wa
s allowed to enter, I would change into a drab suit, such as a low-grade clerk might wear. Putting on a cloak and wide-brimmed hat, I would slip out the back way, like a tenant who has been begging unsuccesfully for time to pay. Secrecy seemed an essential part of it, although, in any case, it was a wise precaution in Puritan England.
My limbs always creaked at first, for although I was but thirty, I carried a good belly and, at other times, walked little. My pace would quicken as I went past Lincoln’s Inn, and my pulse would beat faster as I approached Smithfield, breathing in the stink as if it was fine perfume. In Half Moon Court the printer’s sign was still there: RB with a yellow half-moon, although Mr Black and his wife were long dead, buried where they wished to be, in St Mark’s. Cromwell had kept his promise. Barring Catholics, there was more religious toleration in England than there had ever been.
After the funeral I had told Anne I would sell or rent the place. But when it came to it I always found the tenant unsuitable, or the price too cheap. There was some reason behind this. The place went with the Dutch printing machine that Mr Black bought after making me his apprentice. The bottom had dropped out of the market. Political pamphlets were banned. There were plays, with some popularity in printed form since the theatres had all been closed, but it was a thin business. One day, I always told myself as I gazed through the dusty window at the gauze of cobwebs shrouding the platen, the market would return.
The house opposite, now a tailor’s, was bursting with life, full of children who believed I was a ghost and ran shrieking inside when I turned to the apple tree I had planted. They had picked most of them but there was usually one they could not reach, or a windfall. I would take a bite or two, perfectly calmly, not believing it would happen again. Abruptly, as the sourness cut my tongue, the tears came. They blinded me and racked me. Each time I thought they had stopped they began again, until they drove me from the court.
The exhaustion that followed them was the beginning of relief, and I would go to the address Scogman had found for me. He always said he knew what I was looking for. For a time it was the widow of a baronet, but she grew too attached and talked of love, and I had had enough of that. Whores were easier. That was the real relief, the pretence of love on both sides, and a few hours of wild freedom. Afterwards I would slink back to Queen Street, change back to Sir Thomas, sometimes picking up a draft report I had left in mid-sentence, and work through the night.
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