The Soldier, the Gaoler, the Spy and her Lover

by Simon Parke

  ‘And?’

  ‘We found the letter, which we returned to the saddle and then to the courier, who, unsuspecting, set off for Dover. But the letter was—’

  ‘Was what? You grow tense, dear; you make the sheets tense.’

  ‘Charles explained to Henrietta that he was being courted by both factions – army and parliament, and that he’d go with the best offer for the time being, but ultimately he would choose the Scots.’

  Elizabeth felt the shock. ‘The Scots?’

  ‘Henry and I took horse and went to Fairfax at Windsor, aware that there were no tolerable terms for the king, apart from his own terms; and from that time forward, we were resolved upon his ruin.’

  ‘Mmm . . . well, I hardly think one letter proves a case,’ said Elizabeth. ‘Unless you wish it to, Oliver.’

  She extinguished the wick-lamp and lay still. Cromwell stayed upright for a while, like he had in the battle tents, trying to read the darkness and prepare for tomorrow’s struggles.

  *

  Charles was absolutely furious – incandescent that his diplomacy was stifled in this manner. Parliament had declared it treason to speak with the king without their permission, which had not pleased the Scots; for they’d been speaking with him a great deal.

  ‘They presume to dictate who I may, and may not, speak with!’ declared Charles in derisory fashion. Jane calmed him, saying it would make no difference.

  ‘How will parliament enforce their rules?’ she said. ‘Invade Scotland with rhetoric and a sharp turn of phrase?’ Charles laughed a little; she could amuse him as well as stir him. ‘They used to have an army, of course,’ she said, ‘but not now – the two do not speak.’

  ‘This is much to our advantage,’ he agreed. Her presence and her words, they calmed him; and he liked her dress, which he found most comely.

  ‘Such fracture among your opponents, sire . . . and each wound crying for the healing touch of the king. We only have to wait.’

  *

  Cromwell harangued parliament when he could, sometimes rattling his sword as he spoke, to better make his point. He did get angry and it had rattled in its scabbard in January when he told them they should not ‘suffer a hypocrite to reign’ and that they could expect ‘neither safety nor government from an obstinate man whose heart God has hardened’.

  Charles told Jane that, for a farmer, ‘Cromwell is a clever man – he manages to ride two horses, the army and parliament. But we all know his favourite mare.’

  Parliament, fearful of the Scots, ensured closer detention of the king. His wanderings were now confined to the castle. He was to be kept in check somewhat – no more adventures round the island in his royal coach, which for Charles was most disappointing.

  ‘You deny a king his coach, Colonel? I am surprised you leave me my legs!’

  ‘Your legs remain, your majesty. They are just fenced in a little; you will not need your coach around the castle.’

  Hammond had become ever more suspicious, and less respectful, of the king’s privacy. And he did wonder what to do about the king’s laundrywoman, Mrs Elizabeth Wheeler of Westminster. There was clear evidence from parliament’s informers that Charles was receiving messages via this lady who daily brought in his clean linen. But how could the king be denied fresh laundry? Hammond would certainly not be providing it.

  *

  And now – ye gods! – yet another royal escape plan, here on his desk, ‘designed and quite ready’ according to the Derby House Committee. They even told him the ‘how’ of it all in their clever London ink.

  ‘The king is to be drawn up out of his bedchamber into the room over it; the ceiling will be broken in places for this purpose. He will then be conveyed from one room to another, through the ceiling, until he be past all the rooms where the guards stand at the doors or windows. After this, he will be lowered and make his exit.’

  Hammond sighed and pushed the text away . . . to a more distant part of the desk. It was all very well receiving such news, but what was he to do with it? Reinforce the ceiling? Place guards in the loft? Sleep with the king himself?

  And in the same post, a letter from Cromwell, which he had no desire to read. It filled him with gloom, like a missive from a former love – one who won’t let go and writes only to harass his new life. Thankfully, it made no mention of the ceiling, but did inform him that three boats were arriving from Jersey to collect the king and then take him back there. So three boats were to land on the island . . . but where? And when? And how exactly was the king to be collected? Hammond could not close down the sea.

  He did his best to respond to these endless rumours of escape. He asked parliament for money to strengthen the castle defences, and they agreed money for the building of some higher walls . . . and also sent twelve brass guns from Poole. With the arrival of the two hundred extra troops – a more practical help – external security was certainly better, but internal security still suspect. As far as Hammond could see, Charles’ twenty remaining staff comprised one large escape committee.

  *

  Meanwhile, Jane is writing to Henrietta Maria, who in many ways is now like a sister to her, though they had never quite met.

  Mrs Jane Whorwood

  Servant to His Majesty the King

  London

  5 April 1648

  To your majesty in sad exile and true queen of England,

  I write of recent events at the castle, minded to keep you informed of all that occurs at Carisbrooke until the king is freed to be with you once again.

  That will be a happy day indeed!

  We have lost a little ground of late. I understand that Colonel Hammond – a weak and suspicious soul – has now appointed four conservators to guard his majesty. This does not help our noble cause, but should neither panic nor dismay. The king shall escape before England sees summer; this will happen without question.

  The traitors appointed are Thomas Herbert, Captain Anthony Mildmay, Silas Titus and Robert Preston. Dull fellows all, but they must intrigue us now, for they circle the sun, employed in constant attendance upon the person of the king. They are to work in pairs, I am told, loitering by his side, except when he retires to his bedchamber, after which they are each to guard a door, with their beds laid across it, until he comes forth again. They were chosen as the severest of the king’s household and most trustworthy. This we must work on, for no one is trustworthy when money or privilege is offered.

  They sleep with their beds against the king’s doors at night, though for how long they tolerate this inconvenience, we will see. These men do not imagine themselves as bed-shunting gaolers. They have higher thoughts of their status and can no doubt be turned.

  Meanwhile, the king’s household in the castle has been reduced to twenty, both harsh and unnecessary. How a king can survive with fewer than forty servants, I don’t know. Many of his old servants did survive, praise God, including Firebrace, who grows in use; but Napier and dear Mrs Wheeler are among those now leaving his employment. The loss of Mrs Wheeler is keenly felt for she was a resourceful woman. I have known her many years and she and her assistant, the sub-laundress Mary, handled all of the king’s correspondence; by the grace of God, young Mary had access to the king’s bedchamber during the day, while empty and unguarded.

  Letters would arrive – yours among them, and always the most keenly read – via brave couriers coming to the island. They travelled by night, skirting the patrols – yes, there are more of these now, extra troops in all places. Mary would hide letters beneath the bedroom carpet for his majesty to collect, so she shall certainly be missed. We’ve kept Dowcett, though whether this is good, I wonder – slow-witted, I fear. He helped get letters to Mary and will need fresh guidance now. Men are a duller breed, they lack imagination; excepting his majesty, of course, whose grace overwhelms the whole island.

  In his most royal serv
ice, and in yours,

  Your sister Jane

  *

  The king had now said goodbye not only to faithful friends but also to a decent laundry service.

  ‘I have need of linen,’ he complained to Hammond as they sat together in his study. It felt strange to be behind a desk, conversing with a king, who had the less comfortable chair and came as a supplicant. Though the strangeness was lessening; Hammond grew in confidence.

  ‘Then perhaps you should walk around the castle less,’ he said. ‘It is the walking that makes you sweat and smell.’

  ‘The king does not wish to walk less. He merely wishes to have due regard paid to his linen. Do you not find this room a little dark, Colonel?’

  ‘But your majesty has made unfair use of his laundry,’ said Hammond.

  ‘I miss your meaning.’

  ‘The laundry was offered to manage your clothes, not your correspondence.’

  ‘The king must continue to rule and find the means to do so; you forget this, Hammond.’

  ‘We have an agreement.’

  ‘There is no agreement that can bind a king.’

  ‘There is a man’s word, on which trust is built.’

  ‘Dear Colonel, you must remember that kings are different and not like you at all. To sit behind your desk bestows no authority on your person, when a king sits opposite you. Wherever I sit is a throne.’ Charles smiled. ‘I jest, of course.’

  He did not jest.

  ‘I myself have need of only two shirts a week,’ said Hammond, primly. ‘Enough surely for any honest man.’

  Hammond remained angry that his search of the king’s desk for ciphers had revealed nothing. Where did he keep them? Everyone knew he was receiving them; yet no one knew where they were kept.

  A prisoner, royal or otherwise, should not run such rings around him.

  May 1648

  And as summer dawned, the healing evenings were causing Hammond further irritation. They certainly weren’t healing for him.

  ‘Stop this blaspheming nonsense,’ said Rolphe, who found the idea of them quite deplorable.

  ‘How can I stop the king’s healing?’ said Hammond. ‘It would be like stopping Jesus!’

  ‘I have never mistaken the one for the other.’

  Apart from individual visitors, who were difficult enough to watch, large numbers of supplicants traipsed to the castle, through all sorts of weather, to be touched for the King’s Evil. The sovereign had the power, so tradition had it, to cure those suffering from the scrofula by the royal touch. And so patients with this or other illnesses – the boundaries were ill defined – would be admitted in groups to be blessed by the king’s holy hands; and despite the stricter care, this remained easy access to the king for any of his subjects. Why put beds against his doors at night, when any could walk in and be healed? People arrived from near and far – there were three from Yorkshire tonight. They’d lodge in Newport or the surrounding villages, and wait to catch the king on his way to supper or when out walking.

  And whatever Rolphe said, Hammond could not stop the healings. That would hardly be fair to the ill, though he did wonder if those who saw the king were quite the invalids they purported to be. Recently Lord Rich had claimed to be afflicted by the King’s Evil, which was possible; but it later turned out his other business was to consult the king about the royalist uprising in Surrey.

  There was too much shiftiness for Hammond’s liking. He’d disliked duplicity in the agitators, but now found their deceit outstripped by that of the king; and a chasm formed between them, between the king and his gaoler, and growing wider with each lying day that passed.

  ‘A relationship cannot live on hollow words,’ wrote Hammond in his diary one evening, the ink heavy with self-pity. And there before him on his desk was an old letter from Ireton, written the previous November. He’d spoken then of ‘the great charge and burden brought upon you, Robert, even in that place where you had, I believe, promised yourself nothing but peace and quiet’.

  Hah! Some peace and quiet this had turned out to be.

  *

  Jane had a particular need; a most secret requirement. And Mr Lilly could help – though could he be trusted? And had he been right about Essex? She would never know now, for things had moved on. Or rather the king had moved on, quite against her wishes – and was now marooned on that wretched island, when he should be in France, this was quite clear . . . and so she needed some acid.

  ‘Do you have feelings for the king, Mrs Whorwood?’ William Lilly was pondering his dispensary.

  ‘Surely every subject has feelings for the king?’ said Jane.

  ‘There are different sorts of feelings.’

  ‘But only one king, and it is his safety we consider now.’

  ‘I consider the stars.’

  ‘And what do they say today? Grilled fish for tea?’ She hadn’t intended to sound disbelieving – or impatient. But she had no time for pomposity.

  ‘They do not speak much of aqua fortis, that’s for sure,’ said Lilly. ‘Or of its corrosive powers on prison bars.’

  She’d had to tell him what the acid was for. It was hardly a normal request for anyone other than a murderer, which she definitely wasn’t; and anyway, she needed to take someone into her confidence.

  ‘It’s how things must now be done,’ she said.

  ‘Do be careful of your feelings, Mrs Whorwood.’

  ‘I’m careful about the king’s freedom; that is the only “care” I know.’

  ‘Your feelings – they haunt you, like a gaunt-eyed ghost.’

  ‘And you are a fine reader of women, are you? Would your wife say so?’ She had not met his wife, or knew if he had one now; she did not see one around. ‘Or are you more for the theory of other people’s lives?’

  Lilly pondered his books. He made his charts, this was his calling, but no chart could be separate from the flesh and blood of the client. There were days when he wondered if their eyes told him more than the stars.

  ‘I do have concern for your feelings.’

  ‘I came here for a name, not a sermon, Mr Lilly.’ Jane was tense in her speech. ‘Sermons pass me by these days.’

  ‘You must be a lonely woman.’ Lilly watched tears fill her eyes, wiped quickly away and removed from her cheek. ‘And tired, I imagine. I know a little of your activity.’

  ‘I have strength, Mr Lilly, if people do not make me sad.’

  It was an instruction, like his father’s had been. ‘Now don’t make me sad!’ he’d say, trapped in the debtors’ gaol, sad his life was this way . . . a big man made sad . . . and Lilly thought of him now.

  ‘Sadness progresses nothing,’ added Jane. ‘Unlike aqua fortis.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘And Queen Henrietta?’ he asked, gazing out on the street. ‘Do you serve her as well?’

  ‘The king says we are like sisters.’

  She had not meant to say that; those had been private words at Hampton Court. But Lilly showed no particular interest, watching the thoroughfare below, which had no hour of quiet. Perhaps he would move to the country and become a country squire? He had heard of others doing this, buying a manor and some heraldry. But what would sheep make of an astrologer? And what would he make of them? He would not make money, that was for sure, there being no better shopfront in the world than a shopfront in the Strand.

  ‘I do have a name for you,’ he said, turning back inside.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  Was he about to insult her? Jane would not stand for it.

  ‘Someone who will provide what you seek,’ he said.

  ‘The acid?’

  ‘They can supply you.’

  ‘And files?’

  ‘He is a locksmith and well stocked. He will serve you well.’

  Was it her imagination or wa
s he being coarse? You never quite knew with Mr Lilly. He gave her a name and address, a locksmith in Bermondsey, and having committed both to memory she stepped out into the street with a plan in her mind and a king to serve. Why would she be sad? She was too busy to be sad; while upstairs, William Lilly took up his quill. The stars may be impartial – but he was not and knew who’d be interested in the news just revealed.

  *

  Dowcett was a large man, steady and slow like the elephant on display in London – and as much born to espionage, this was quite clear. So the king was tender in encouragement, for he needed him; this was how far he had fallen. King Charles now needed the melancholic Abraham Dowcett.

  ‘Be confident,’ said the king.

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘Appear confident in what you do.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘And nothing can go wrong.’

  ‘Unless I’m caught – sire.’

  ‘I will, of course, be as careful as I can be,’ said the king, ‘so there is no suspicion cast.’

  ‘Yes, your majesty. And if I am caught?’

  ‘Your discovery will prejudice me quite as much as it will you.’

  ‘Not quite, your majesty. They hanged Captain Burley for banging a drum; they have not hanged you for a war.’

  It had to be said, though Charles perceived it as a fine nonsense.

  ‘Ah, Abraham, you are a true Englishman, the most noble sort!’ Dowcett did irritate him. ‘And now we are both servants of this country; we merely serve in different ways.’

  Very different, thought Dowcett, and said, ‘Yes, your majesty.’

  And Abraham Dowcett was proud to be a true Englishman, and happy to be named as such by the king. But he knew there were spies everywhere in this household, informing and counter-informing. Quite simply, he wished to keep his head down.

  ‘Let not cautiousness beget fear, Abraham, this is the thing . . . and be, er, confident of me. Yes?’ Charles touched his arm, something he avoided with servants – but needs must, and Dowcett noticed. He noticed that the king both touched him and used his name. He could not but feel the force; who wouldn’t? So he determined to do as he was told: he would attend the king at meals.