The Soldier, the Gaoler, the Spy and her Lover

by Simon Parke

  ‘If there is a letter to pick up, a secret sign will be given.’

  ‘Yes, your majesty.’

  ‘You will then go and collect the letter from my bedroom.’

  ‘And will I know the secret sign?’

  ‘Of course; it cannot be secret from you!’ Here was a very stupid man. ‘If there is to be a collection made, I will let fall my handkerchief. Like this.’

  Charles let his handkerchief fall to the ground. Dowcett watched.

  ‘This will be a sign that a letter from me is ready to leave the island.’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘And if I have safely received a packet, and wish to make this known, I will let fall one of my gloves. Like this.’

  Charles dropped one of his gloves, and again, Dowcett watched.

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  ‘I will be curt with you, though, in my manner.’

  ‘Curt, your majesty?’

  ‘I will be curt, a little surly in my manner towards you.’ Dowcett nodded. ‘But you must not take it ill in any way. If I look sourly on you in public, it is your best disguise; you will appear as one outside my circle, someone not cared for or respected.’

  So, little acting required, thought Dowcett.

  Maybe he did this for Firebrace more than for the king, because they were friends in a manner, though different to their core. Firebrace was forlorn without a scheme in the air, and delighted in finding ways.

  ‘The king gives me a problem, Abraham – and I find ways!’ he’d say.

  As page of the bedchamber, Henry Firebrace had access to the king’s bedroom during the day, and so replaced Mary when she was removed, checking beneath the carpet for correspondence in and out. And sometimes he and the king spoke, direct to one another, Firebrace having found a way. He would ask one of the guards if they wished to be relieved. He’d tell them to go downstairs and enjoy some supper and a pipe; they never turned him down.

  And once they were gone, and happily feeding their faces, Firebrace would speak with the king through the partially open door to his room – partially open because the guard’s bed blocked it.

  ‘I do believe we out-fox the colonel,’ said Charles through the door on one occasion, which made Firebrace feel splendidly proud, as he knelt on the guard’s shifted bed.

  And after a while, he became yet more confident. Not content with speaking through a half-opened door, he pierced a hole in the stone wall, behind a tapestry, so he could talk to the king without moving anyone’s bed to open the door. This was less of a risk, if someone approached: no door to close and no heavy bed to push back. And in these hole-in-the-wall conversations, the second royal escape attempt took shape.

  ‘This is the plan, your majesty, and I believe it possible.’

  ‘Tell me your plan.’

  ‘I have noticed that the inner courtyard is not well patrolled at night.’

  ‘Indeed. I too have observed this.’

  The conversation was slow. There was only one hole through which to listen and speak, so ear and mouth needed time to adjust. Sometimes two mouths spoke and sometimes two ears listened.

  ‘So if you were to lower yourself from the window to the courtyard below, the two of us could make our way to the battlements on the south side. This is remote from the officers’ quarters on the north side and from the gatehouse and guardrooms in the west.’

  Had he finished? The king felt he should speak. ‘Quite. And what th-th-then?’

  Ear to the hole again.

  ‘John Newland, a merchant of Newport and one of our own, has made a ship available to us. And Richard Osborne will also help.’

  ‘We trust Mr Osborne?’

  ‘We do, yes.’

  ‘I have my doubts.’

  ‘As Gentleman Usher and holder of your gloves during meals—’

  ‘Mr Osborne holds my gloves limply. It speaks of disdain.’

  ‘That is his manner, your majesty.’ Why were they discussing this?

  ‘It is an unfortunate manner.’

  Had the king finished?

  ‘The holding of gloves is a personal matter, your majesty – the manner of it, I mean. We all hold gloves in different ways.’

  ‘It should be done confidently and with swagger . . . especially the king’s gloves.’

  ‘Mr Osborne is both trustworthy and invaluable, sire, I can assure you. And he will pass notes to you, by placing them in the fingers of the gloves.’

  ‘He could be a parliament man.’

  ‘I do not believe so, sire.’

  The king was wearing him down. Firebrace had this entirely planned and simply needed a ‘yes’ from the king. Was that too much to expect?

  ‘And if he is on parliament’s side,’ added Firebrace, ‘which he isn’t, but if he is, then I am more lost than you.’

  ‘And when we get to the battlements?’

  ‘A rope will take us to the base of the curtain wall, where Osborne and Edward Worsley – another trusted servant of the king – will be waiting to help you down the bank. They will have with them a spare horse saddled, with pistols and riding boots; and from there, we will make our way to the boat. Everyone is well instructed in their part.’

  It was their best chance to date. Without a doubt, the king would soon be free.

  *

  In his parlour at Drury Lane, across from the almshouses and the goldsmith – and four doors down from The Cockpit – Oliver drew on his pipe: both pleasure and relief, with neither so common these days. Opposite him was his son-in-law Henry, as clear-eyed and square-headed as ever. On the battlefield, Oliver was the more compelling, energized by the grand vision and big movements of men and beasts. He struck opposition flanks with discipline and power.

  But in the cold pursuit of a civil matter, you wanted Henry in command; Oliver knew this. He admired – no, he envied his son-in-law’s clarity of thought and ease with decisions, no cloudy thoughts. Cromwell changed his mind four times a day, and under duress (this was well known) would become becalmed, decision-less for days. ‘Oliver without Henry is like a man without an arm,’ he’d heard it said.

  ‘The king puts himself up for auction,’ said Ireton, waving away the smoke. ‘We bid, as do the Scots, as do parliament; and it is intolerable. This is all I say.’

  ‘You have little time for Charles,’ said Elizabeth, who was stoking the fire – a task she saved for Henry’s visits; this Oliver had noticed. But ‘Henry is family’ was Elizabeth’s view . . . and why shouldn’t she be with family in her parlour?

  ‘He will take the highest bid,’ said Ireton, who did not regard this as personal. Whether he had time for Charles was not relevant; the king’s political whoring was simple fact. ‘And if our bids do not much impress him – and I cannot imagine one that would, other than a bid penned entirely by Henrietta while astride him – then he will take himself to France.’

  Let Elizabeth be upset at his coarse tongue; he cared not.

  ‘Oliver remains a monarchist,’ replied Elizabeth coldly, still hovering, still busy at the grate. ‘You are aware of that?’

  ‘And I remain a monarchist,’ said Henry, light-heartedly. ‘We seem a gathering of royals!’

  ‘You do not sound like a monarchist.’

  ‘Perhaps I do not sound like a monarchist at any cost. It is a distinction worth drawing. We all draw a line; we just differ in where we draw it.’

  ‘But not Charles,’ said Oliver, quietly but firmly.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ said Elizabeth, her face turning from the heat.

  ‘Not Charles.’

  There was some silence.

  ‘You have not said this before,’ said Henry. He did not wish to assume, but . . .

  ‘In the present storm,’ said Cromwell, ‘we must make the best of the anchors we have.’

 
Elizabeth laughed in mockery. ‘And where are the anchors if Charles goes?’ she asked. ‘No one knows whether you are monarchical, democratical or aristocratical, Oliver! Perhaps you should float to the Americas and start all over again!’ He had thought of it, when younger. ‘So which are you?’

  ‘Perhaps I am all of those, Elizabeth – and none.’

  This does not bode well for a decision, thought Henry.

  ‘Did not the Jews have patriarchs, judges and kings at different times?’ asked Cromwell and it was a telling hit. ‘Their anchorage changed, and perhaps ours does too.’

  ‘Strange words from the man once so impressed by the king.’ Elizabeth was angry. ‘Who came back to me from Hampton Court with stories of his “grace” – that was your word – and “kind fatherhood” to his children.’

  ‘And it was so, I do not dispute it; and you thought the same, and have loved him ever since.’

  She would ignore that. ‘No one would guess you’d fought a war against him, Oliver. “Charles is a good man, Elizabeth,” you would say, “I warm to him greatly”.’

  Ireton felt awkward. Though a strong woman in her household, he had not expected Elizabeth’s intervention.

  ‘I was taken in,’ said Oliver. ‘I acknowledge my mistake. Does that improve your spirit?’ Elizabeth’s face did not suggest so. How was life improved by apology, with the mistake already made? ‘The glories of this world so dazzled my eyes that I could not clearly see the great works God is doing.’ There were tears in his eyes, the water of remorse and repentance. But Elizabeth stood with her hands on her hips.

  ‘Sometimes, Oliver, I have no idea what you’re saying,’ she said, with the sigh of one too busy to stand here wasting her time. ‘In the past year, you have been for parliament over the army, then for the army over parliament, then for the king over both and now for the parliament and army against the king! They say you drift and slither like an eel in grease!’

  It was only later that they sat alone, Oliver and Henry. The fire had near burned itself out, unvisited by Elizabeth and unnoticed by them in their solitude.

  ‘She doesn’t believe we should disturb the throne . . . never has,’ said Cromwell.

  ‘But would you keep a throne?’ Ireton looked vainly for precision.

  ‘There is always a throne, Henry. The question is only how many sit on it.’

  ‘But Charles shall not sit there?’

  ‘He is an obstinate man whose heart God has hardened.’

  Those words again. Ireton had known this truth for a while and was pleased Cromwell had now joined him.

  ‘I will write to Hammond to be aware of any deception going on at Carisbrooke,’ said Ireton.

  ‘If that is what we must do,’ said Cromwell. Melancholy brought caution and there’d been much in his spleen of late. It came like a fog, bringing doubt to the path. God had been in his victories, this was quite clear. But where was God in this confusion . . . and had he withdrawn his blessing? Oliver looked in vain for a sign; every day he looked for a sign.

  ‘Perhaps I will draft the letter,’ said Henry, ‘and you write it. It will be better from you.’

  ‘I was not put on this earth to be your secretary, Henry.’

  ‘You must decide for yourself why you were put on this earth, Father.’

  And for the first time, Oliver was not sure. The beacons by which he had steered his life had all been destroyed, lost in the miasma of move and counter-move. Cromwell felt hated by republicans, hated by the king, hated by parliament and hated by the Scots. Was this a sign of godliness – to be hated by all? Some did preach that. Certainly, there was little joy here . . . only the scream of Christ on the cross, ‘My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?’

  ‘You’re doing well, Oliver,’ said Henry, with a kindness that surprised them both.

  *

  ‘And how is the king’s health these days?’ asked Brome.

  After some angry searching, he’d found his hopeless wife Jane in the gardens of their country estate in Sandwell – well, his country estate. There was nothing here that was hers. And he did not object to Sandwell; it gave him status and a little income. One day he would reclaim his family manor at Holton – a grander holding. But this would suffice for now; and he’d been looking for his adulterous wife all morning.

  ‘He keeps his spirits up,’ said Jane, cautiously. She’d hoped not to see her husband this morning. She’d hoped not to see him since their marriage day, but the longing was particular today. They had rowed last night; he’d been drunk and had shouted. She’d wished him back in Holland, he’d taken offence . . . and she’d slept in the guest bedroom. Where Brome had slept, she could not be sure. She’d heard him on the step to Kate’s room, one of their maids who he liked to visit. But she found him in the morning on the divan in the parlour. She’d left the curtains closed, but in the half-light gazed on the snoring figure, shorter than her, turning a little to fat and his curly hair thinning, she noticed . . . no longer a boy.

  But now she was discovered by the rhododendrons and could not escape.

  ‘It must be hard for him without his wifely comforts,’ said Brome. ‘Very hard. You know how men can be, when left alone in the world.’

  She did not like to hear him speak of the king. It was an aspect of her life where he had no place, no claim – territory free from his sneering, grasping presence.

  ‘I don’t know what you imply,’ she said primly – though she did know what he implied. He rubbed his cock to make it plain.

  ‘They love each other, Brome – is that so strange?’

  ‘They love each other across the sea? His prick must be longer than I thought.’

  ‘It’s a feeling you might struggle to understand.’

  ‘Oh, I might struggle – but not you?’ He moved towards her. ‘So you now are all love . . . and I am none?’

  Jane did not have time for this. He seemed bent on confrontation, and really Jane wished only to withdraw.

  ‘I loved you once,’ she said, quietly.

  ‘You tell me now! I did not know it!’

  ‘I loved you once.’

  ‘You tried to love me once.’

  ‘And what else did you want? Is trying not enough?’

  ‘I think . . . I think I wish for it to be less trying, perhaps. I think I wanted to be loved and swived without the trying, Jane – such beggarly portions offered. I was only a boy after all.’

  And you still are, she thought. This was clear to Jane, a boy who could think of no one but himself.

  ‘Perhaps I froze in your care, Jane, what do you think?’ Jane shrugged. ‘But no matter, no matter, for others unfreeze me now . . . and I own everything – even this flower!’ He snatched at the rhododendron bush, wrenching a small branch free. ‘While you have nothing bar the king’s swivelling stick – and that will be a brief ride, for sure.’

  ‘I have a cause, Brome, that’s what I have, a noble cause. And I wish to return to it now.’

  ‘So is that what we are to call it?’ He was sneering, circling her. ‘You open your legs and call it a cause?’

  ‘I see no purpose in this communication. I wish to leave.’

  ‘And leaving is your habit, Jane, is it not? Is it not you who keeps leaving, leaving our home? You leave a great deal.’

  ‘Our home? Is that what you imagine – that this is a home?’ She could not let that pass.

  ‘You leave a great deal,’ said Brome again – and now both finger and fist were close to her face. She pulled away.

  ‘How would you know anyway? You’ve been neutral in Holland these past two years, frightened for your life, while I and the children took care of ourselves. I’ve never had a home here.’

  ‘And that’s been your choice! Your choice! You left home long before I did, Jane, with your meetings and your travels and your conspirac
ies.’

  There was a pause. Jane breathed in, halted for a moment.

  ‘I do it for the king and the nation.’

  ‘You do it for yourself, you harlot. What does he promise you?’ Again his face closed in. ‘Or is it simply enough to be free of your children?’

  ‘He promises me nothing.’

  ‘He uses you for free? I did imagine as much . . . a vaulter for the king, a convenient whore, bitch and jade!’

  ‘I will leave this afternoon,’ she said.

  ‘It is what you do best, Jane. And on your return – whenever that might be, I care not – you shall sleep in the attic. That shall be your place now.’

  Jane was shocked. ‘It’s where the maids sleep,’ she said. ‘It’s where—’

  ‘We shall move Kate, give her a different role in this household, as “governess”, I think – yes, she deserves that for the manner of her performance.’

  ‘You cannot do such a thing. I am your wife.’

  ‘And I am master of this estate, Jane,’ he said, walking away, gesticulating at the surrounds, ‘owned by my family for centuries – while you are a late arrival and without authority here.’ And now he turned, spun round, advanced upon her, grabbed her face, pressing his fingers into her cheeks. ‘And Kate – she keeps a warmer bed than yours – I’m sometimes quite amazed how warm.’

  Kate now appeared close by, with some agitation.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but Reverend Wainwright is here, seeking to speak with you.’

  ‘Then I will come, thank you.’ He swung free of Jane, pushing her away. ‘I would not keep a holy man waiting.’ Jane stumbled and half fell, tripping on her dress. ‘There is certainly nothing to keep me here,’ he said to Kate, patting her bottom, as he strode back towards the house. ‘Mrs Whorwood was just leaving. She’s always just leaving.’

  And she was, even as she got up from the ground, already on the road in her mind, on her way to London. She had money; she would be on her way. She would find Mr Wallace, a wily merchant fresh from the sea, and she’d celebrate his recent good fortune . . . in person.