‘No, that is true.’
Monck looked at Clarke. He seemed to be havering, so Monck asked him if there was any other business to transact. ‘No, Your Excellency. No business.’
‘What then?’
Clarke looked at the floor and shuffled awkwardly. ‘Sir, I have heard, as your Private –’
‘It is true,’ cut in Monck. ‘There is no help for it and I must now admit you to my closest council. It was not possible before, Will, pray take my word for it, as much for your sake as mine own but I met with the emissary of Charles Stuart last night in secret, and in my Lady Anne’s bed-room, too.’
‘That has an air of conspiracy,’ remarked Clarke warily, half-offended that his faithful service had not admitted him sooner to this momentous news. Monck was not insensitive to this.
‘I could not tell you, Will, until I knew myself that I was committed to the movement. I was not so satisfied in my demands until last night. This is the first opportunity I have had…’
‘Morice is your go-between?’ asked Clarke, and Monck divined the jealousy that Morice had superseded Clarke in the General’s confidence.
‘No. Morice stood guard outside our apartment to give warning if anyone sought our disturbance. Come, Will, see sense. You are not jealous of Tom Clarges who has these many years been my ears and eyes in London. You know I am first a soldier and only a long way second any sort of politico. You have every expertise requisite of a Military Secretary and have been my right hand for more years than I care to recall as I am sure you are, but what do you know of the mood of Devon, or Cornwall, or Essex, Suffolk and Norfolk, Leicestershire… Need I go on? Morice, who has his place in the Commons, has a nose for such things, a talent for sensing the air which neither you nor I possess…’
‘Forgive me, sir.’
‘There is nothing to forgive, but I must know your mind for I must hold the Army’s allegiance if the return of the King is to be accomplished without setting the country to civil strife.’
‘Sir,’ Clarke’s voice took on a tone of weary acceptance. ‘I have followed you faithfully wheree’er your drum has beaten or your horse led. I am your servant and am bound to follow you. For myself, aye, and for my wife, I should best welcome respite, peace, a rest. If the King brings it, I shall bless him. If you bring the King, I shall bless thee. That is all I have to say upon the matter.’
‘Thank you, Will. Thank you.’ Monck paused, motioned Clarke to take a seat and poured two glasses of wine. ‘The King’s messenger is not Morice but a distant cousin of mine.’
‘Grenville?’
‘Yes, Sir John Grenville. I had him kicking his heels to my supposed displeasure and his futility by way of discouraging my foes but keeping him close. Last night I admitted him and he brought me news that the King would accept all the points upon which I insisted before promising my services. These were: Item, the forgiving of all who had risen in arms against his father except those that Parliament condemned; Item, that full pay and indemnities, including land-grants in Ireland, all such as had been promised, would be upheld; Item, that liberty of conscience should be granted to all subjects that they might worship as they chose – barring, of course, Papists…’ Monck ticked the subjects off on his fingers one by one, adding that he had advised Charles to move from the Spanish Netherlands into the territories of the Seven Provinces, the better to avoid detention by the Spanish since he, Monck, had been importuned by the Portuguese ambassador whose master lay under the Spanish yoke.
‘We want an untrammelled King, not a bargaining card,’ he said. ‘Grenville left last night for Harwich and Holland. I await a declaration from Charles Stuart wherein he submits to accepting a Parliament in regular conclave and itemising the points that I have just made. That will be the first shot to set all things in motion. Morice and Lenthall may be relied upon in the Commons. Thereafter, I shall despatch Tom Clarges to supersede Grenville.
‘There, you have all the secrets of my heart, Will.’
‘Then we still have work to do to secure the Army’s loyalty.’
‘Exactly,’ responded Monck, pleased that Clarke was already engaging with the necessity for action. ‘First, a list of any you still suspect require purging. Then I want you to draw up a document ready for transmission to all Regiments wherever they are stationed, including Ireland and Scotland. I await confirmation from Morgan that Scotland is quiet and am minded to send Lochiel north to add weight to my Purpose, but only when I am ready. As to the declaration to the Army it must mention the agreement of Charles Stuart when we receive it, but thereafter it must be hurried to the troops. Every commissioned officer is to sign it in the name of his Regiment and you are to make it clear that it is the will of the full and free Parliament that authorises this demand for a loyal declaration by the Army. This is not an oath, but the acknowledgement of an order; that must be made plain. The time for oath-taking is over, except,’ Monck said with a waspish air or relish as he tossed off his glass and rose to his feet, ‘except for the oath taken by a King.’
‘And possibly by those required to swear their loyalty to him in person,’ Clarke hinted shrewdly.
‘Well, that’s as may be, it will scarcely trouble me.’
‘If you stand close to the King you will be made a Privy Councillor. And possibly an Earl…’
‘What nonsense!’ breezed Monck. ‘And, for God’s sake, say nothing so foolish to Mistress Monck; she has ideas enough already!’
It was as well that Monck had let Clarke into the secret of his communication with the exiled Charles for, two days after Grenville’s departure to Holland, Monck’s response carried by word-of-mouth, a mysterious stranger appeared before Clarke and pressed into his hand a letter. It bore Charles’s sign manual and contained the most passionate assurance that once restored, he, the King, would ‘take all manner of ways he could to let the world see his trust’ in Monck. Monck concealed the actual words from Clarke, merely stating the letter confirmed the King’s desire to secure his friendship. Nor did he tell Anne. Both Clarke’s prediction and Anne’s desires seemed altogether possible and Monck was not certain how he might respond. What his enemies would make of it all was predictable.
‘If it is to be, just let it be bloodless,’ he muttered, setting a candle-flame to a corner of the letter and holding it until his finger and thumb burned.
*
The House of Peers was silent as the Chancellor rose from the Woolsack and announced that he had in his hands a letter placed in his keeping by the Council of State. It had been delivered to General Monck and the Council of State by Sir John Grenville, who came hither upon a passport issued by General Monck. The letter was from Charles Stuart. The Council had declined its reading, preferring that it should be first read by the House of Peers, and thereafter made know to the Commons. It was dated from the Dutch city of Breda and it contained all the demands made of the King-in-waiting by Monck. Most importantly for the Army and those who had ventured their lives upon the Commonwealth, it confirmed all estates that had passed from Royalist hands into those of the supporters of Parliament during the Civil War, guaranteed payment of wages and the re-employment of all troops in Royal Service. No man should want bread. It was met by complete satisfaction.
A separate letter to the Speaker and read to the Commons after the reading of the Declaration of Breda assured Lenthall and the assembled Commons that Charles affirmed the constitutional rights of Parliament under the Crown. Monck rose and spoke of the King’s goodness and proposed that His Majesty’s letter be communicated immediately to the Army. The motion was carried and Monck shortly afterwards hurried from the House to see this done without any delay.
There followed several days of activity during which every officer stationed close to London was mustered and addressed by the Lord-General. The King’s Declaration was made known to them and Clarke’s letter, of which there were now sundry copies, was laid before them for signature. One-by-one, Colonels, Majors, Captains, Lieutenants, Ensigns a
nd Cornets signed and made their marks. Montagu had his clerk, one Samuel Pepys, carry a similar document to the ships of the Fleet lying at Chatham and Portsmouth. There the naval officers went through a similar procedure and although there were murmurs of unhappiness, no-one refused to sign. In the meantime copies of Clarke’s letter had been carried to the four corners of the Three Kingdoms where the ritual was repeated. Few declined to sign and these included the radical fanatics, though some of these prepared to leave the country for fear of their lives. Although Charles had agreed to pardon all bar those excepted by Parliament, many saw no consolation in this, especially those Regicide officers of whom there had been no mention. By early May, Clarke had an immense pile of signed copies on his desk and on the eve of their despatch to Breda by especial courier, Clarke asked that Monck would meet with a small delegation.
Monck agreed. He was exhausted, his legs ached and his body felt preternaturally heavy. From Clarke’s words he assumed it to be a small group of those Army officers and others most intimate with the events of the past weeks. At first this seemed to be the case as faces familiar from the march from Coldstream entered his chamber in The Cockpit. Affability itself, he made them welcome, invited them to take wine and apologised that he had nothing for them to eat, whereupon Anne appeared with plates of sweetmeats similar to those with which she had beguiled the Members’ wives a few short but eventful weeks earlier. Later he knew she had been part of the conspiracy, and chid her for it, though not with any malice, for the conspiracy was as foolish as it was short-lived.
Their spokesman was Clarges, who announced his presumption relied entirely upon his relationship with Monck as the Lord-General’s brother-in-law.
‘I speak not for myself, sir, but presume to do so upon the prevailing of the present company, chiefly men of the Army who have served close to Your Excellency…’
‘I should perhaps ask that you go no further,’ said Monck, rising and suddenly apprehensive of what was to come.
‘Hear him oot, George, for the sake o’ your friends if naething else.’ Lochiel raised a glass to him and Monck subsided.
‘We want you for King, sir.’
Monck thought afterwards it was Ralph Knight who said the words, but perhaps it was the Regicide Ingoldsby, who had much to fear if Charles Stuart returned as King. It did not matter; the justifications and arguments in his favour fell thick and fast.
‘Ye have a better right to the Crown of England than any Stuart,’ someone cried out.
‘By blood, sir, you’re a Plantagenet…’ The accent was Yorkshire where, despite his fall at Bosworth and the long usurpation of the Tudors, men still spoke of Richard III with affection. Had not Fairfax ridden a white horse named ‘White Surrey’ just as Richard had done before losing the beast at Bosworth, a loss that cost him his kingdom? Men said Fairfax had done so in reverence to the lost Plantagenet whose governorship of Northern England conducted from Middleham Castle had been popular in Yorkshire and the counties palatine.
‘And by right of conquest, Your Excellency. We Coldstreamers saw to that!’ This assertion was met by loud cheers. The self-styled ‘Coldstreamers’ were already well known for their stories of ice and snow – a happy pun on the crossing of the frozen Tweed -, and forced marches and sundry other hardships, all of which grew in the telling and were indissolubly linked with the growing legend of General Monck.
‘You understand the want of a full and free Parliament. We have no guarantee that Charles Stuart will keep his word –’
‘His daddy never did!’
Monck met Lochiel’s eye which closed in a wink of complicity. He would never register such confidence in Scotland, he knew, for the Stuarts came from thence and the attachment was strong, perhaps unbreakable. Lochiel had spoken to him often enough of the unreliability of Achibald Cameron, Marquess of Argyll. And there was always the confusion and confiscations of Ireland and the Papists, wherever they were. The notion of Monck as King was idiotic; it had gone on too long.
‘Ye governed Scotland well, sir. Very well –’
‘Stop!’ Monck roared. ‘Away with you all! You have all signed, you have all bound yourselves already. See, there.’ He indicated the great piles of declarations they had so recently put their names to and which encumbered Clarke’s table. ‘I will hear no more of this nonsense. As God is my witness, I love you all for your loyalty but I have no desire to be King and must plead that you are all to pledge to King Charles what you would mistakenly pledge to me.’
The little speech was greeted with disappointed silence. Someone coughed, as though about to speak, but Monck intervened.
‘We have been comrades over-long. All things must pass and we have seen our share of glories. We have perhaps wrought the work of the Lord of Hosts and now the sword must be laid aside in favour of the ploughshare for the country has need of peace. Setting me up as King would renew old schisms.’ He looked round at the disappointed faces. They had performed prodigies under his command as they had under Oliver’s, even Lambert’s, and God alone knew what the future held for them individually. He softened his tone. ‘I thank you all from the bottom of my heart. You have done me good service and in so doing rendered the Three Nations safe. May God bless you all.’ He paused, cleared his constricting throat and raised his glass: ‘Come, gentlemen, come. I command you not, but invite you – I give you: King Charles!’
There was a dreadful, pregnant pause. Then Lochiel took the initiative: ‘God save King Charles!’ he called out.
Again, there was a moment’s hesitation and then it was over. Some were openly weeping, some were smiling, but all gave out the shout – ‘God save the King!’
‘Will ye declare for the King at once, Your Excellency?’
‘Aye! Aye!’ There was an encouraging chorus of assent for this new notion, designed, no doubt, to place the restoration of the King upon the swords of the Army.
Monck shook his head. ‘No gentlemen, this must – it has to be – based on the wishes of Parliament.’
A thoughtful quiet greeted the suppression of this impulsive request before the cleverer among them saw point of Monck’s argument. They shuffled awkwardly, their eventual agreement coming – like a Quaker decision, Clarke remarked later – from their wordless consent.
One-by-one they left as one-by-one they had come in. All of them came and shook his hand, some with the tears wet on their weather-beaten cheeks, some unable to meet Monck’s own watery blue eyes. Some could not speak, others muttered their apologies at having raised the matter, others merely murmured their farewells. Monck himself could scarcely bear it.
Apart from Clarges and Clarke who remained in the room after they had all departed, Lochiel was the last to leave.
‘Ye’d never ha’e held Scotland, George, though Ah’d never ha’e turned a hand agin thee.’
‘I know that Ewan,’ growled the old man, thinking – as Lochiel was thinking - of Argyll, plotting and awaiting the turn of the tide in his castle at Inverary. ‘In truth I was never tempted, though I am flattered, ’tis to be sure.’
‘What man wouldna be? They love thee, George, they love thee. ’Tis a pity ye gave that pair o’ birds to Lambert. You’ll be having some time on your hands now. Maybe I’ll send thee another brace an’ ye can hunt frae your horse doon in that Devon o’ yours.’
‘You have made straight the King’s path, sir,’ Clarke said when Lochiel had gone. Monck noted the tears in his Secretary’s eyes.
‘I did not carry him in my belly, as they are saying, Will.’
‘I know that, and so, too, do many others.’ Clarke looked at Clarges who shrugged.
Monck grunted and cleared his throat. ‘Call the courier. He has been waiting long enough, and get those papers sent to King Charles,’ Monck indicated the pile of signed declarations awaiting dispatch to Breda. Clarke nodded, but did not move, as though the recent event had paralysed him and Monck saw the exhaustion in his haggard features.
He looked from Clarke to Clar
ges and growled at them.
‘Which of you is going to tell Mistress Monck she is not to be Queen, eh?’
‘I will, George,’ said Clarges with a smile, ‘out of brotherly love.’
‘Go to it. Then I have other work for you.’ Clarges left the room and Monck put his hand on Clarke’s shoulder. ‘Tom Clarges shall be my ambassador to Charles Stuart. Do not take offence at it, Will. It strikes me that you are ill.’
Clarke shook his head. ‘Tired, sir. That is all. Just dog-tired. And I have a wife.’
‘Well, you may sleep soundly with her tonight. I think we have secured the loyalty of the one part of our new King’s realm that might have disrupted his restoration.’
Clarke nodded and Monck sighed. ‘Something troubles you, sir?’ Clarke enquired.
‘Only the prospect of facing my own wife,’ he grunted, stuffing a quid of tobacco into his cheek.
*
‘Bishop Wren! I was not expecting you but you are welcome. Will you take a glass of wine?’
‘Thank you, yes, Your Excellency. Your Secretary was kind enough to recall me.’
‘You have heard the news. Is that what brings you here?’
‘My heart is over-full, General Monck. I felt my thanks at your good offices in my behalf were inadequate upon the occasion of your visit, so I thought it best if I delayed any effusion of gratitude until I might seek an opportunity to express my sentiments adequately, embracing all your achievements, rather than only those impinging upon myself. It seems that you have accomplished everything.’
Monck shrugged. ‘My brother-in-law goes to Breda shortly and I expect him to communicate the King’s mind without delay. Sir Edward Montagu is ordered to prepare a squadron suitable for His Majesty’s reception and conveyance hither when the word is given. Such matters I tell you in confidence. As for yourself, I think it, er, meet, right and your bounden duty to prepare an Office in the Abbey church at Westminster to the celebration of His Majesty’s Restoration. I shall prepare an order for that and you may confer with the Dean and Chapter.’
Sword of State: The Remarkable Story of George Monck Page 48
