The Soldier, the Gaoler, the Spy and her Lover

by Simon Parke

  ‘So, the king is truly gone?’ asked Henry, still shocked, contemplating the awfulness of this news. The courier nodded.

  ‘And how did that occur, Scratching? How exactly did the king dance out of our care?’

  Henry Ireton was Cromwell’s right-hand man, his harder edge. He had a square head, famously square, and piercing eyes that saw with more clarity than kindness and suspected even the innocent. You could sweet-talk Oliver but not Henry, that’s what they said. That he was also Cromwell’s son-in-law – married to his eldest daughter Bridget – was strangely unimportant.

  The nervous courier continued: ‘Colonel Edward Whalley arrived at the king’s bedchamber at five o’clock to accompany the royal prisoner to the chapel – as usual, sir.’

  ‘And the king wasn’t there?’

  ‘No, the king was there – he was inside the bedchamber writing letters, that’s what the colonel was told, and couldn’t be disturbed.’

  ‘A prisoner who cannot be disturbed? I desire such imprisonment myself.’

  ‘And then the same thing happened at six o’clock, sir.’

  ‘Whalley was turned away again at six o’clock?’

  ‘They said the king was still at his letters; he does like his letters.’

  ‘And the colonel did not wonder a little?’ asked Ireton. Was Whalley an idiot?

  ‘I don’t know, sir.’ He had not wished to be the messenger today. ‘He wondered at seven o’clock, though, because when there was still no sign of the king, he did suspect the king’s servants of subterfuge, and looked through the keyhole and banged on the door. But getting no answer – the door was locked – he insisted on being taken round the back way, through the privy gardens and up the privy stairs.’

  ‘And on entering?’

  ‘The king’s cloak was lying on the dressing-room floor.’

  ‘But not the king.’

  ‘No, the king was gone. They reckon he had a head start of five hours, your grace.’

  ‘Mr Ireton will do. I am not yet a bishop.’

  Cromwell laughed; a more unlikely bishop would be hard to find. Like himself, Ireton was from Independent stock and not for dressing up in popish finery. All you needed was faith and a Bible. Scratching looked down at his shoes, as if he personally had led the king to freedom.

  ‘We do not hold you responsible, Scratching,’ said Cromwell.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Now go and find yourself some food, and consider your work for the evening done.’

  ‘Work for the evening done, sir,’ said Scratching, nodding vigorously in relief.

  ‘You have been a faithful messenger, which is all that is asked of us.’

  ‘All that’s asked of us, sir.’

  ‘Isn’t that so, Mr Ireton?’

  ‘Quite.’

  ‘That we be faithful messengers . . . now be on your way.’

  ‘Yes, your grace.’

  ‘Mr Cromwell, if you please! No pretensions of status here! I do not like the pretensions of status!’

  Scratching backed out, begging their pardon once again. Cromwell broke the silence that hung heavy for a while.

  ‘So where does he travel, Henry?’ He looked wearily at the sword that lay calm and sheathed on the table. ‘And how deep is the dung in which we stand?’

  *

  Dowcett had said all along that there was no forest on their route; Firebrace was too enthusiastic about everything. He was much too busy with his plans to see that most things did not go well, not in the end. This was Dowcett’s wisdom: that life was endlessly unfair and frustrating.

  ‘There’s no forest on the way,’ he’d said to himself – but audibly enough, for even kings must listen sometimes, particularly when lost on a wet night with the army giving chase. They’d all be dead by sunrise.

  Charles never listened, though, and certainly not to servants. They needed to look to themselves, this was Charles’ view, and to their lack of preparation – for how could the king discern the way, when he had been captive for eighteen months? It was his servants who should have provided maps of the route. Why were there no maps? Did he have to do everything himself?

  ‘I am disappointed in you,’ he said, in a manner as chill as the rain. Servants should serve; but these servants judged him! He was oppressed by the journey and by the company of his companions. Servants came and went as bidden; but these ones loitered and not in a helpful manner.

  ‘I need you to dismount and walk your horses,’ he said.

  Legge, Firebrace and Dowcett looked confused. ‘Dismount, sire?’

  ‘I need to think a while,’ said Charles, who could not think while they remained in their saddles alongside him. ‘You will walk your horses down the next hill, while I decide what to do.’

  ‘We must go to the West Country, your majesty,’ said Firebrace.

  Why were they telling him where to go?

  ‘The West Country is with you. They will rise in support.’

  ‘I asked you to dismount, not make comment.’

  He didn’t use names, not to his staff; it seemed beneath him and might discomfort them. They must simply do as they were told or he’d become angry – and he didn’t wish to be angry. That was the last thing he wished, for he was a man of peace.

  Legge, Firebrace and Dowcett dismounted. They plodded down the hill, pulling their horses, while Charles reflected on his movements; and it was then that he realized where he should go.

  ‘The Isle of Wight!’ He said it out loud. ‘Carisbrooke. I shall go to Carisbrooke on the Isle of Wight.’

  Hammond was the man he could work with now. He had felt the young man’s admiration when they’d met at Hampton Court, and he liked admiration. And Charles was no stranger to the Isle. He had such happy memories of his visit there as a prince in the summer of 1618. Easier times, halcyon days. It had been a warm summer and he’d dined at the castle and found solitude in the well-house, watching the treadmill donkey . . . good memories indeed.

  He would ride forth and tell his servants where they were going; after providential guidance, they were going to the Isle of Wight to reclaim his youth and his future!

  *

  ‘To France, I imagine, via Jersey,’ said Henry. Where else would the king go? He’d be off to find Henrietta – and a Catholic army. ‘An unfortunate loss, wouldn’t you say?’ He was angry at the fool Whalley for allowing such escape, and angry with his father-in-law who’d appointed Whalley and his regiment to guard the king. ‘I had heard Whalley was a most courteous host to Charles,’ he continued. ‘But this was surely a courtesy too far.’

  ‘Edward is an honourable man,’ said Oliver, ‘and a fine soldier.’

  Whalley had been one of his own regimental commanders, brave at both Gainsborough and Naseby. He would not easily criticize.

  ‘But a piss-poor gaoler,’ said Henry, not given to such language.

  ‘There was rumour he’d choose the custody of the Scots,’ said Oliver, wishing to speak of Charles rather than Whalley.

  ‘And in the face of such rumour, we chose to leave the back stairs unguarded?’

  ‘Jersey is possible as well. I’ve heard that Henrietta has kept a boat there for some weeks.’

  There was further silence between them which grew tense.

  ‘We should not have lost him,’ said Henry, the sense of blame apparent.

  ‘I felt him to be a man we might work with,’ said Cromwell. ‘A man of honour. He is the king, Henry.’

  ‘But never a man to trust, Oliver – this was quite clear from the start.’

  ‘Clearer now than then; hindsight speaks with an easy clarity.’

  ‘Clearer now he is gone to France, in search of an army larger than ours. Clearer now that everything we have worked for is sunk!’

  He had never liked Oliver’s hap
py talks with the king, but then Oliver could never hold a grudge. He’d wished only to bring the king round to a new way. Cromwell liked peace; few knew this . . . but Henry did.

  ‘You cannot stay angry for long, Oliver.’ Cromwell looked vacant for a moment. ‘It is a weakness of yours. You were angry in war, but forgot your wrath in peace.’

  *

  Charles had come to the house of the Earl of Southampton, where he dried slowly in front of the large log fire. He had told the earl he was staying the night, which was a shock to his host.

  ‘You catch me unawares, your majesty.’

  ‘They say the second coming of our Lord will not be much heralded.’

  But the earl would have preferred the second coming; it would have been less upheaval. And the day had started so well, with a fine breakfast of beer and fish, until Jeffrey had approached the table, bowed, and announced news of a royal arrival. He had not himself been convinced it was a king, inclining to scepticism. ‘He says he is the king, sire – but whether he is so?’ Jeffrey made a doubtful face.

  ‘Yet he claims to be the king?’ said the earl, putting down his beer. What was this?

  ‘He says he is the king and says it with force – but does not resemble a king.’

  ‘And have you ever seen the king, Jeffrey?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him, no, sir.’

  ‘Is he short?’

  ‘He is short.’

  ‘The king is short.’

  ‘But he’s damp and, well, dirty, sire . . . not monarchical, is what Sarah said.’

  The earl said, ‘Thank you, Jeffrey,’ and shared his doubts. After all, he’d spoken with Charles at Hampton Court only last week, and he’d been peaceful enough then; in some luxury and ease, in fact, with paintings by Dürer and Rembrandt recently delivered from Whitehall. Why would he leave such a place? But on his arrival at the front door, it was the king, standing bedraggled in his porchway, and he couldn’t hide his surprise.

  ‘I hope my subjects are always glad to see their king,’ said Charles, a little reprovingly.

  Some more so than others, thought the earl, and none when the visit is unannounced or at this time of the day. But then the king did not live in the world inhabited by others. He lived in a world that happened on his behalf, with no other cause considered.

  ‘It is an honour, of course, your majesty, but an unexpected one. You have left your lodging—’

  ‘My imprisonment—’

  ‘At Hampton Court.’ The earl was considering the implications, both for the king and for himself. ‘And the army?’

  ‘They will be looking for me, no doubt; I hardly think they are pleased that his majesty has left their care. But I had no choice, no choice.’ There was always a choice, thought the earl. ‘They would have murdered me, the soldiers. There were plots.’

  ‘Then you must come inside, with your—’

  ‘My manservants have travelled with me.’

  Legge, Firebrace and Dowcett looked like three wet hunting dogs, who’d been hunted themselves.

  *

  Hammond was feeling in splendid spirits. The Isle of Wight was a most invigorating setting: a taste of heaven, if one could say such a thing. He might well retire here – this was his thought as he set out this morning for a meeting with some local gentlemen in Newport. It was the island capital, a mile to the east of the castle, and it would be a pleasant ride. The sea air was good for him; he felt this.

  ‘To be free of England’s politics is a wonderful thing,’ he had told Captain Rolphe that very morning, and the pleasure could not be chased from his bones. He would visit Aunt Margaret tomorrow, and with the help of these local dignitaries improve the table at Carisbrooke Castle. He did keep a very good table, as Sir John Oglander had himself acknowledged, and he was eyeing the Isle’s fowl when waylaid by two weather-beaten riders.

  The smaller man spoke. ‘Do you know who is very near you, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Hammond. ‘Do I know you?’

  He should have had an escort. He had grown a little casual on this holiday isle.

  ‘Do you know who is near you?’ said Firebrace again, more pressing.

  ‘Come no closer, rascal, until you have declared your business,’ replied Hammond, who had once been a soldier.

  ‘You have heard of the king, I believe; met him even . . . he says so.’

  ‘What would you know of the king?’ The men were vagabonds.

  ‘He is near.’

  ‘Who is near?’

  ‘Even good King Charles, who is come from Hampton Court.’

  ‘He is imprisoned there; he cannot be here. Now be on your way!’ Hammond nudged his horse and began to move on.

  ‘He was imprisoned there,’ said the man. ‘But left – for fear of being murdered privately.’

  Hammond paused his horse and felt the shadow of dread across his day. ‘He is come from Hampton Court?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘And come here?’

  ‘Escaped the army’s clutches, with cleverness and guile, and now seeks refuge with you, while he considers matters.’

  ‘Who are you?’ Hammond was disturbed.

  ‘It matters not. What matters is the one who sent us.’

  ‘You have authorization?’ He dearly hoped they did not.

  ‘Here is the letter . . . with the king’s seal.’

  Firebrace rode towards Hammond, handed over the parchment and withdrew while Hammond broke the seal and read.

  ‘He seeks refuge on the island?’ said Hammond, beginning to feel faint.

  ‘He is close by, Mr Hammond, and we have little time.’

  Dowcett looked at his friend with disquiet. Firebrace had said too much, though it was Hammond who grew pale and started to tremble. He was in danger of falling off his horse.

  ‘He is much discomposed,’ thought Dowcett and moved slowly towards him. Hammond waved him away.

  ‘Where is the king?’ he asked, regaining himself. He was sure there had been a mistake, a misunderstanding.

  ‘All will be revealed,’ said Firebrace.

  ‘Is he on the island? Because if he is, I am undone, I tell you that quite plainly. And if he is not on the Isle, which I sincerely hope is the case, he must be kept away. He must be kept away at all costs. Do you hear me?’

  ‘He cannot be kept away, Colonel. He is the king—’

  ‘And I his loyal subject, of course, but . . . but here in the trust of the army and parliament.’

  ‘Your king needs you.’

  ‘And I am greatly honoured.’ Dowcett thought he looked more haunted than honoured. ‘And, of course, I will act with honour, in any way I can,’ Hammond added.

  ‘Then no harm done,’ said Firebrace, cheerfully, though he had not slept for thirty-six hours and was wet through to the marrow of his Swindon bones. Hammond, however, was thinking only of harm: of the consequences of turning the king away, a terrible dilemma before him. For if the king were to escape his attentions now, how would the army take that? And how would the nation take it, on hearing that he, Robert Hammond, had refused to receive him in his hour of need? The two horsemen drew closer.

  ‘We need your assurance, Colonel, of safe-keeping for the king.’

  ‘He comes here to save his life, you say?’

  ‘Evil plots – he would not have lasted another night at Hampton.’

  ‘Then I assure you that if the king puts himself in my hands, I will do all that can be expected of a man of honour.’

  Firebrace looked to Dowcett. Was this reassurance enough? Dowcett offered nothing and Firebrace realized the decision was his. They’d risked their lives to bring the king south and now the future of England lay in the balance. He looked at Hammond . . . yet Hammond still wasn’t sure.

  ‘I have a mind
to take one of you as a hostage,’ he said. Firebrace and Dowcett looked at him bemused, as if he was a child – or worse, a loon. ‘An insurance against any tomfoolery,’ he added. ‘The other will then take a message to the king – if he is indeed here.’

  Neither Dowcett nor Firebrace would be held as hostage.

  ‘We have not travelled here to be made hostages, sir,’ said Firebrace.

  ‘No,’ said Hammond, who then changed his mind. He didn’t like those looks, and agreed to ride with them to see the king.

  ‘Let us all go to the king and acquaint him with our plan,’ he said.

  ‘With all my heart,’ said Firebrace, who thought this was the way to proceed, though Dowcett was less certain.

  ‘You mean to carry this man to the king?’ whispered Dowcett. ‘Before you even know whether the king will approve of his undertaking or no?’

  ‘Approve of it? It was the king’s idea, surely?’ muttered Firebrace, who longed for a little human enthusiasm from his colleague. ‘This isle was his idea.’

  ‘But he did not ask that Hammond be brought to him.’

  ‘What else can we do?’

  ‘We do not know his intentions, which are probably bad. He might be coming to make an arrest.’

  ‘I think not.’

  ‘Well, sadly, the king is not made secure by your thoughts, Firebrace.’

  ‘He is an honourable man, with an honourable bearing.’

  ‘They said the same of Pilate.’

  ‘And what choice do we have?’

  ‘We will surprise his majesty, that is for sure. And perhaps feel his wrath.’

  But Firebrace didn’t care. He had been a long time in this saddle, and for most of that time, damp, underappreciated and hungry.

  ‘Let us to the king!’ he said cheerfully.

  *

  Jane paid the boatman three ha’pennies, which she was happy to do. She enjoyed travel, even travel in the rain on a wet boat bench without cover. She liked to be carried, by horse or boat, and for a moment to be quite powerless in the world, with nothing to do, nothing which she could do . . . but sit and be carried. Some found travel tiring, but this had never been so for Jane; it was here – and perhaps only here – that she found rest, reliant on another to do their work and nothing to be done while they did. Though today there was anticipation as well, for she was eager to see the king and, with the advice of the stars from Mr Lilly, to organize his escape to Essex.