The Soldier, the Gaoler, the Spy and her Lover

by Simon Parke

  He watched the dark ink sink into the parchment and wondered what lay in store for his king and country.

  *

  Hammond too held a quill. He was back in the castle, placed behind his desk, ink on parchment to parliament, writing of the latest events to befall him on this once quiet isle. Cromwell would not smile on him for writing to parliament, he knew that. Oliver didn’t like parliament. But parliament must hear of these recent events first and give him instruction. He could hardly manage this affair without such guidance.

  ‘I await instructions,’ he wrote, feeling sick at the circumstances that closed round him.

  When he took this post, he had not expected to be the king of England’s gaoler.

  *

  ‘The stars did not mention the Isle of Wight?’ said Jane.

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  Lilly continued with his sextant, in the cause of another client. Mrs Whorwood was neither invited nor welcome.

  ‘Perhaps they become a little forgetful,’ she said, to prod him a little. ‘Do stars grow old and forget things, Mr Lilly – like an old man wondering where he left his slippers?’

  ‘Stars are eternal,’ he replied, studying his work. He wished to offer no encouragement to this woman, who seemed to have taken some perverse fancy to him . . . one could imagine that.

  ‘Eternally wrong, it seems, for they spoke to you of Essex, some way from the Isle of Wight. How foolish can ten gold coins be?’

  Lilly put down his pencil and pondered her face. This woman was stiff with frustration and would not be gone without some attention given, some calming offered. ‘It appeared a safe place, Mrs Whorwood.’

  ‘Not to the king, it transpires.’

  Lilly smiled wearily. ‘So the king’s unparalleled wilfulness is on display again. Do you wish me to pretend surprise?’

  He could not hold that in, but Jane was equally stern. ‘Or is it rather the immeasurable pride of the parliament and army who imagine they can contain a king?’

  Jane had given no warning of her arrival; she did not like to give warning. She’d been passing, near enough, and felt it only right that Lilly be confronted with this matter. She had no plan here . . . but things needed to be spoken.

  ‘You may share a morning draught with me, if you wish,’ he said. ‘And I have some pickled oysters.’

  He fetched refreshments and they sat across the table from each other. She wondered if he approached her in some manner – men did this, she found – but couldn’t be sure. She was not certain if Lilly had sex in him or what stirred his fancy.

  ‘On what do you work?’ she asked.

  ‘I work privately.’

  ‘I saw the name of Charles.’

  ‘You did?’

  ‘While you were out, in the other room, my eyes could not help but wander to your parchments.’

  ‘You pry?’

  ‘I do not pry – I merely have eyes.’

  ‘And busy ones, Mrs Whorwood.’

  ‘My eyes must always be busy on behalf of the king.’

  ‘There are many called Charles in the world. You saw nothing of consequence.’

  ‘But only one who is the king’s son, Prince Charles – which is more exactly what I saw.’

  Lilly sighed. ‘He is safe with his mother in France and need not concern us.’

  ‘He is the king’s son and most definitely concerns us.’ Lilly gave up the fight, sinking back in his chair. ‘Is it true what they say?’

  ‘What do they say?’ he asked. Who had this woman been listening to?

  ‘That when he was born, Venus was the presiding presence in the sky.’

  ‘She was.’

  This was the only astrological story she knew . . . apart from the Christmas story.

  ‘Some said it was like the star that guided the wise men to Bethlehem,’ she added.

  ‘Those seeking royal preferment, perhaps.’

  ‘Yet it was true! The guiding star was there at his birth!’ Jane pressed Lilly like no other.

  ‘It is true,’ he said, ‘that Prince Charles was born with the sun in Gemini, Virgo on the ascendant, and the moon in Taurus.’

  ‘And of what future does that speak for the king’s son?’ She leaned forward, like one sensing a great discovery.

  ‘The celestial picture is thus dominated by Mercury, which might – and I only say might – suggest a quick intelligence.’

  ‘Like his father, Mr Lilly, like his father. People do not always see this, but the king, he has such intelligence.’ Lilly pondered her again. Was this monarch worth her devotion? And of what substance was this devotion comprised? ‘You were telling me of his son,’ she said.

  ‘I believe you were telling me.’

  ‘Please. And you must have another oyster, or I may eat them all!’ Jane did like oysters.

  ‘We can expect a restless spirit in the prince,’ he said. ‘Though this latter trait may be the gift of his mother, rather than a star. I’m told Henrietta can be more remote than any planet.’

  ‘You will not speak of the queen in this way!’

  ‘I will speak as I wish, Mrs Whorwood – and not be ruled by your guilt.’

  A pause.

  ‘And Prince Charles?’ She wished to return to the prince.

  ‘What of him?’

  ‘Is there anything else to be said . . . with regard to his character?’

  ‘We note that with Mars in Leo, here is a young man who can draw from the well of physical courage.’

  ‘Again, like his father.’

  ‘Not a well-established perception.’

  ‘The king is a fine horseman, if you didn’t know, Mr Lilly, quite fearless in the saddle.’

  ‘I’m aware he rides – but heard it was usually away from battle.’

  ‘A youth who excelled at both tournament sports and hunting.’

  ‘He was a weak and sickly child, Mrs Whorwood. They thought he would die.’

  ‘But a child who did not die, Mr Lilly, that is the point. One who would not give up, who worked hard to strengthen his body. Such determination in one so young!’

  ‘You speak as though you were there.’

  ‘So of course his son will have physical courage. He falls not far from the tree.’

  Jane was elated, felt hope once again. So intelligence and courage were there in the prince? The king’s son had a bright future; how could it not be so? And if the son, then the father also, her dear king. She had lost hope, become desolate and confused – but no more.

  ‘I will take my leave, Mr Lilly,’ she said, seizing one last oyster.

  Lilly smiled. ‘You are converted afresh to the wisdom of the stars now they speak to your longings, Mrs Whorwood.’

  ‘I do not need the stars to know these things, Mr Lilly. I have always known them . . . always.’

  *

  ‘There used to be a donkey in the well-house,’ said Charles, enjoying the sea air – perhaps the only thing lacking at Hampton Court.

  The king and Hammond walked and talked on the first day of his confinement; though Hammond preferred to speak of hospitality. He had woken in shock and then terror on remembering the events of the previous day. But might he now become a close confidant of the king? This thought had arrived at breakfast, and calmed him a little. Perhaps even a man the king came to rely on?

  ‘I came here as a prince, you know, nearly thirty years ago,’ said Charles. ‘I remember the donkey well.’

  ‘How the years pass, your majesty,’ said Hammond, wondering how one spoke to a king beyond deference and gratitude, which could not be sustained beyond a brief encounter. And yes, perhaps these memories explained much. Perhaps here lay the reason for the king’s surprising arrival. A return to an innocence lost? A return to simpler times, before he turned a nation ag
ainst itself in war? Was this an act of repentance, even?

  ‘And there is still a donkey in the well-house,’ said Robert, cheerfully. ‘Though perhaps not the same one.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Maybe father is replaced by son on the treadmill.’

  ‘One hopes so.’

  ‘Unless the son would prefer to be free.’ The thought did strike him.

  ‘That is not a choice, I’m afraid,’ said Charles. ‘There is only the treadmill; like father, like son.’

  They walked with apparent gaiety, but Hammond felt discomfort. Loyal subject and gaoler was a difficult blend – the two did not marry. He would describe himself as the king’s guardian; this had been his thought after writing to parliament. If any should ask, he was the king’s guardian, ensuring his monarch’s safety. He offered protective confinement while the future shape of the kingdom became clear. The king would return to the throne, this was certain, and it would not harm Robert if he was remembered as the king’s man in his time of crisis.

  ‘It has gone a little to ruin, I am told,’ said Hammond, surveying the castle.

  ‘I think we all have,’ said Charles.

  Hammond felt sudden pity for this small man. He had traumatized the land, there was no doubting that, yet now he looked weak, like the newest child in the school yard, ripe for the bully boys.

  ‘And I will need to journey a little every day,’ said Charles, looking east. ‘I cannot be ensnared here in the castle.’ He was testing the water.

  ‘Your desires are my desires,’ said Hammond, though he did worry a little as he said it. That was the deference of a servant, and he was not a servant. He did not wish to dishonour the king, in any manner, but neither did he wish to lose him; and ensnarement was in some degree Hammond’s task. It would not look well if he mislaid him, that was for sure, and to that end the castle would not be his friend. It was a Norman edifice, set on a chalk plateau, with defences built at the end of the sixteenth century in the face of Spanish threat. So while it was primed and ready to keep naval enemies out, it was not equipped to keep restless prisoners in.

  Hammond still had the eye of a soldier, if not the heart. The porous chalk made the moat – traversed by a long stone bridge – quite dry, so there was no need for a swim to escape, while the low outer walls could easily be climbed, even by a small king. And how to patrol the great length of the perimeter with twelve old men as guards – twelve men who were staunch royalists and could only climb stairs with difficulty?

  The inner walls were good, however, and the walls surrounding the courtyard; they were a proper height, as Charles observed.

  ‘The Normans built tall walls and walls to last,’ he said, with a prisoner’s regret.

  ‘Trust is the highest wall,’ said Hammond, looking into royal eyes which offered little in return.

  ‘Indeed,’ said Charles, looking away. ‘One must always trust the king. It is the duty and the joy of the subject to trust the king.’

  *

  In the end, Cromwell threw a cushion at Edmund, such was his frustration at the words said and the accusation made.

  ‘Crush the Levellers, Oliver, and you crush the soul of this revolution,’ Edmund had claimed.

  ‘But there is no revolution, Edmund!’

  Oliver did not believe in a revolution; that had never been his wish. He had no desire to oversee revolution.

  ‘Not after Corkbush Fields, there isn’t! You shot your own, Oliver, gunned him down while all a-chatter with the king. How things have changed since the war is gone. I quite forget who is with who these days!’

  They had met at Ireton’s house, the three of them. Henry warmed more and more to Edmund Ludlow’s republican company; Oliver had noticed this. And so they pondered the vexed unfolding of events now the king had bolted and shifted matters south. And they gathered as companions round the table, or so Oliver thought, until Ludlow – never one to hold back – remembered himself a lawyer and forgot himself a friend, and started accusing and accusing. He would not let up . . . and Cromwell was throwing the cushion, for what else could he do, then retreating fast down the stairs to the kitchen, chased by Ludlow.

  ‘If the flinging of soft pillows is your only answer, Oliver, then I appear to have found your marrow!’

  And Edmund pursued Oliver around the table, the cushion still in hand. Being the quicker man, he was soon beating the soldier with it, and between the blows Cromwell was laughing but Edmund more serious, though trying to smile.

  ‘My counter-argument!’ he declared, with a final bash . . . and now the feathers were leaking and the two men exhausted, when Ireton arrived and called a halt.

  ‘You damage a wedding gift, Edmund!’

  ‘And this man damages my country!’ he replied, pointing across the room to Oliver, the heavier man and still out of breath.

  *

  The king and Robert walked back towards the inner courtyard, across the stone bridge to the gatehouse and guardrooms. And Hammond’s heart sank as he looked again on his new home: a crumbling castle and a run-down garrison, maintained by a hobbling staff – this was his kingdom! Yesterday, it had seemed quite heavenly – but today? The only consolation was the officers’ house, where Hammond quartered in his bachelor way, a fine residence built in the 1580s.

  And there was other good in the place. The food had improved since his arrival, and now the king was their guest it would need to improve further still. For this reason, his first instruction had not been for more guards, but that his mother should come quickly from Chertsey. She was to be hostess at the castle; she would sort things out.

  ‘I have written to parliament,’ said Hammond, as they reached the gatehouse.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘It was about the conditions of your confinement.’

  ‘I desire very much to speak with my dear friends in parliament,’ said Charles. ‘It is time this kingdom was restored to peace, and together we can make it so.’

  Charles had no desire to speak with parliament. They’d need cosseting for now, polite and hopeful words, for they did run the country in a way. But his heart was set on the Scots, and their army coming south . . . a fact not for public mention. The truth was, agreement with the Scots was close to completion, much of it achieved by covert correspondence while at Hampton Court. They too needed sweet words, for they had not been pleased by his arrival on the Isle, after they’d offered him refuge in Berwick. But then perhaps they shouldn’t have sold him back to the English – then he might trust them more! In the meantime, he told them to ignore all his public utterances, made simply for effect; and he knew the value of smoke for blinding eyes.

  ‘You must prepare your forces for invasion and leave the rest to me,’ he’d said, and he smiled now at the memory.

  Hammond noted the king’s cheer and was glad that he was happy here.

  ‘I believe parliament wants only the peace of this kingdom and yourself on the throne,’ he said. ‘Something conciliatory from your majesty would move this matter forward.’

  Charles eyed him with pity. ‘So parliament is your master now, Robert – and not the army?’

  It was a casual question, though not casual at all.

  ‘Honour shall be my master,’ said Robert.

  ‘But who funds your honour?’

  *

  ‘We will pay more attention to a woman,’ said Wood, the intelligencer. He had a dry voice, like dead sticks after a long summer.

  ‘A woman?’ said Cromwell.

  ‘Indeed. She serves the king rather well.’

  ‘You mean like Adam, we may be toppled by Eve?’ Cromwell smiled as he spoke, imagining this to be the prelude to more serious learning. He looked for sharper intelligence from Wood, not talk of women.

  ‘Your mocking spirit may be her greatest disguise, Mr Cromwell.’

 
‘I do not mock. I—’

  ‘You mock the idea of a woman wielding power.’

  ‘I have daughters myself, Mr Wood, and know their power. They handle me more cleverly than the king.’ He was too soft with them; they made him so. ‘Elizabeth is perhaps less susceptible to their charms.’

  ‘And yet still you giggle?’

  Wood was unmemorable but unforgettable. You would not remember the bland face beneath thinning grey hair, but you would remember the meeting. No one straightened Cromwell like Wood, and he continued: ‘I do not speak of homely play and parlour games, Mr Cromwell, I note our national stage and the poisoning of power.’

  ‘Then you will give me the substance of this, Mr Wood. I am not aware of this mystery woman’s power.’

  ‘She is not your friend, that is for sure, and she encourages the king in similar disdain.’

  ‘She is the king’s friend?’

  ‘And busy in that friendship . . . very busy across the land.’

  ‘Is she not a wife to someone – or a mother?’

  ‘Both, but unhappy at home and so blessed with a great energy for travel.’

  Oliver’s mind wandered. He had never wondered what Elizabeth performed while he was away; she ran the home, of course, scolded the children . . . perhaps a little too much.

  ‘And what does this woman do with her travel?’ he asked.

  Wood extracted some notes from a bag and placed them on the table. ‘This is only what we know,’ he said. ‘But it’s enough to stir interest.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘She has the web of a spider in autumn, Oliver, delicately spun but strong – merchants, laundresses and God knows who else.’

  ‘He does, yes – God knows all things.’ Like the writer of Ecclesiastes, Wood did stray from the divine path sometimes.

  ‘Webs of intrigue established at first by her stepfather, James Maxwell, once groom of the bedchamber for both Henry and Charles.’

  ‘I know of Maxwell: a self-important Scot.’ He had no time for Maxwell. ‘And Henry would have been the better king,’ said Oliver, drifting a little.