The Soldier, the Gaoler, the Spy and her Lover

by Simon Parke

  ‘An unexpected year,’ thought Hammond as they rode north with soldiers he’d once led, when life had been a simpler thing.

  *

  The knock came at six in the morning.

  The king was unready, caught again in restless dreams of lame horses and boats unready for use or impossible to reach. It was violent knocking; he heard the door open – Sir William protesting at such intrusion, and so early. And then Anthony Mildmay appeared with armed support at the door of the dressing room. He said the king should come with them, that they must leave now.

  ‘If I must,’ said the king, as five soldiers entered his room without due respect, all most offensive. ‘And on whose orders?’

  ‘Army orders.’

  Charles received the blow without apparent pain. ‘And where am I to be taken?’

  ‘To the castle.’

  ‘Carisbrooke? I return to Carisbrooke?’

  Hesitation before the answer. ‘No, sir.’

  He was disappointed. ‘Then where? Does my new home have a name?’

  There were whispers among the soldiers.

  ‘We cannot say,’ said one.

  ‘Hurst, your honour,’ said another. He’d never seen a king before. ‘Hurst Castle.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Charles felt bereft. ‘You could not have named a worse home, I think.’

  Somehow Firebrace talked his way through the circle of guards and started asking the king if he would like some breakfast; he would prepare him some breakfast. But Mildmay waved him away. There was no time for breakfast, he said. They wished the king clear of the town before the streets filled.

  ‘The king will have breakfast,’ insisted Firebrace and disappeared to raise Hopkins’ sleepy cooks. But the king could not wait; he was not allowed to wait. When Firebrace returned – with assurances of a meal being ready within half an hour – the king was being led down the stairs. Firebrace knelt to kiss his hand, but as the king paused the soldiers pushed him from behind and he stumbled forward.

  ‘Go on, sir,’ they said, as they aimed him through the front door and towards the waiting coach. The king climbed in and turned round to find Rolphe attempting to join him.

  ‘It is not yet come to that!’ he shouted. ‘Get out!’

  Rolphe withdrew, brushing himself down, and watched as the coach made its way through the sleeping streets of Newport, turning west on to the Yarmouth road: a nine-mile journey for the king, his last on the Isle of Wight. Yarmouth was the nearer port, nearer than Cowes and chosen for safety; no ships from the Solent could interfere in Yarmouth.

  At Portsmouth, later that morning, Saunders, commander of the troops there, wrote to General Fairfax, and the courier was soon on his way: ‘Our God has done his work for us, all things are quiet in the island, the king went without any opposition to Hurst Castle and is there now; your work is now before you.’

  December 1648

  ‘He vacillates, Elizabeth.’

  Henry Ireton sat with his mother-in-law in the damp parlour in Drury Lane, a lonely home of late with no sharing of the bed. Above the crowded London roofs shone the weak afternoon sun; a little blessed the parlour floor through leaded windows.

  ‘Light without warmth,’ said Elizabeth; and Ireton smiled at the assault. He’d heard it said of him before. Oliver remained in the north, outside Pontefract where he laid siege. Elizabeth had last seen her husband in late July. It was now the start of December, with no sign of Advent, the season recently banned by the Presbyterians. ‘He is perhaps less certain than you, Henry.’

  She would defend her husband stoutly in his absence . . . and only there.

  ‘He knows what he must do, Mother, but attempts not to do it.’

  ‘He is fighting.’

  ‘He is not fighting, Elizabeth – he’s drifting. He has Lambert with him. Lambert could take care of the siege; it’s Pontefract, not Rome. He averts his eyes and drifts.’

  Elizabeth knew of Oliver’s drifting. It was not a good sign.

  ‘And what must he do?’ she asked, as if Ireton was a know-all to be humoured.

  ‘He must bring the king to trial.’

  ‘That is your solution.’

  ‘And yours as well.’

  ‘Not mine, Henry. You will not name me in your disloyal band.’

  Authority had to be respected. Elizabeth was quite clear on that.

  ‘It is the only solution,’ said Ireton. ‘Since the king took this nation into another war. And that war has warped Oliver, broken him. He’s a different man, Elizabeth, believe me. Lost . . . harder.’

  Elizabeth would not admit that Henry was right, that her husband struggled as never before. She would not grant him this affirmation.

  ‘But not yet as hard as you, I’d wager,’ she said.

  ‘I was unaware that you did.’

  It was almost flirtatious, but Elizabeth would not be charmed. She had respect for her cold fish of a son-in-law, but he wasn’t someone you liked . . . though perhaps Bridget had feelings for him? They seemed an honourable couple, not gay in any manner but honourable enough. And Henry was not afraid to act, a trait that Elizabeth privately applauded. When the king and parliament had ignored the army’s ‘Remonstrance’, Henry had removed the vague Colonel Hammond from his position as governor of the island. He had then taken the king – in the early hours, they said – and placed him in Hurst Castle. And in a short while, as he’d made plain, he would deal with parliament and conduct a ‘most necessary purge’. Her husband may vacillate, but not Henry.

  ‘Oliver tells me he seeks other ways,’ she said.

  ‘Other ways?’

  ‘Ways other than a trial. He is a royalist, Henry, as are my children. We are all royalists here. You will not find any in this house who are anti-monarchical.’

  It was true: Bridget and her siblings all favoured kings and queens. Ireton had to endure this division daily, even though it made no sense.

  ‘A king who has twice dragged them and their father into the mud and blood of war?’ There was a pause and Ireton looked out of the window, at everything and nothing. ‘And yet still Oliver wishes to save him.’ He spoke with a resigned manner, staring at his own incomprehension.

  ‘For which he should be applauded,’ said Elizabeth.

  Ireton decided on another tack. ‘He sent Denbigh to speak with Charles about abdication.’

  ‘And perhaps that is the way now. I know Oliver thinks so.’

  ‘It has always been his hope, that Charles will choose to abdicate, with one of his sons succeeding him on the throne.’

  ‘It was my idea before his.’ Elizabeth puffed herself a little. She had suggested it first to Oliver, which he sometimes forgot. Why do men forget who gave them their ideas? ‘It would seem the right way forward,’ she added, because there was a right and a wrong way for Elizabeth.

  ‘Well, Denbigh is the king’s friend, so who better to persuade him, you might imagine?’

  ‘A good choice.’

  ‘But Charles would not even see him,’ said Ireton, in the manner of a trap closing.

  ‘Oh.’ This was news to her and she was disappointed. Charles should have seen Denbigh. Why would he not see Denbigh?

  ‘He sent him away without an audience,’ said Ireton. ‘Humiliating for Denbigh, of course, but Charles is more stubborn than a stain and quite beyond saving. He never needed counsellors to mislead him; he misleads himself.’ He drank his beer from the pewter cup and added: ‘The only visitor the king has agreed to see is a woman called Jane Whorwood.’

  He let the name hang in the air.

  ‘And who is she?’

  ‘An associate of the king.’

  ‘An associate?’

  ‘What other word is there?’

  ‘I hope you do not imply—’

  ‘I imply nothing.’

 
‘Charles and Henrietta have always been most devoted. ‘

  ‘Though apart for some while.’

  ‘As I have been from Oliver. Does that mean—’

  ‘It means that there is no more devoted husband in Christendom than your Oliver.’

  ‘The king and Jane pray together, no doubt,’ said Elizabeth. The alternative did not bear thinking about, really not. There was a pause. Ireton wondered if she wished him to leave, but she didn’t. ‘And so the king is to be tried?’ she asked, with a tight jaw.

  She wished to speak with Henry to clarify the situation. Oliver’s letters spoke of God and his desire to be with her; but clarified little, invaded by every possibility, but convinced of none.

  ‘That must be our path.’

  ‘And executed?’

  Everyone in London knew that there could not be one without the other.

  ‘What options does he leave us?’ said Ireton. ‘He leaves us none. We cannot banish him and risk future invasion. Imprison him, and we provide ourselves with a hub for every spoke of discontent. And we can hardly put a new king on the throne while the old king lives. It is not like buying a second pair of shoes.’

  *

  An urgent knocking on the Strand front door, followed by a wordless climb up the stairs; and now she stood breathless in his work place of charts, chalk dust and geometry sets. Jane was straight down to business.

  ‘I need a chart for the king – quickly.’

  Lilly smiled, as to a child asking for a blue rose. ‘I will not do you a chart for the king, Mrs Whorwood.’

  ‘I have come for that reason, Mr Lilly. It’s why I’m here.’

  ‘Then you will be disappointed.’

  ‘I cannot be disappointed, Mr Lilly. This must go well for me.’

  She was close to tears. William sighed.

  ‘The king is beyond the stars now,’ he said, quietly.

  ‘Beyond the stars?’ She put down her travel bag and with her fingers brushed down her lacy yellow dress, which to Lilly looked tired: a garment that once spoke of life and delight but worn out now with travel and the stains of life. ‘How can anyone be beyond the stars?’

  William Lilly cleared away his charts; it was the end of the day. Jane had arrived unannounced and in a fluster. Lilly was too tired to join her in her anxious state.

  ‘The heavens speak of disposition, Mrs Whorwood.’

  ‘I’m Jane, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘The disposition of the elements towards certain outcomes. The stars can speak of favourable times, but of themselves they cannot change the hearts of men.’

  ‘Are the stars then quite dumb about his fate?’

  ‘He goes from strength to weakness, Jane. He goes hastily to worse and then worser.’

  ‘How can you say that?’ She was shocked.

  ‘How can I not? Many tides have come for the king, Jane, kind tides – but he has caught none of them.’

  ‘The king should not need tides.’

  ‘We all need tides.’

  ‘The king needs loyal subjects!’

  ‘The king needs friends.’

  ‘He has friends! Good friends, friends who would do anything for his liberty and well-being.’ There was no doubting of whom she spoke.

  ‘You have become such a friend, I understand. Some wine?’ His physic could do with some wine.

  ‘You “understand”?’ said Jane. She didn’t want wine. ‘What is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means that here is a small island and your business with the king is well known.’

  ‘To one with parliamentary ears, perhaps; to one collecting stories. Did you speak of my last visit to anyone?’

  Lilly did not answer and a rage came over Jane – or a melancholy she’d never known. She felt unheard in the world, quite unheard. An abandoned king, left all alone; yet it was her own abandonment she felt most keenly.

  ‘He is abandoned, Mr Lilly! Charles is like Christ in Gethsemane while his disciples sleep!’

  ‘And who are you, Jane – Mary Magdalene?’

  ‘I do this for Charles and Henrietta – always for Henrietta!’

  ‘I do not require your reasons, Jane. I am not the confessor you need.’

  *

  Charles looked out to sea, a small figure silhouetted against a winter horizon.

  Two large soldiers talked nearby. He had attempted conversation, the common touch on display; it was why his people loved him. But on this occasion, his subjects chose surly silence, as if he was of no matter, no longer a king. He’d heard the phrase ‘man of blood’ on their lips, which was hardly true – he was a man of peace, always a man of peace, now cruelly exiled to a bleak outpost . . . the bleakest of all: Hurst Castle.

  He knew its history for he was an intelligent man. Built by Henry VIII, it stood solidly at the seaward end of the shingle spit that snaked for a mile and a half beyond Milford-on-Sea – a coastal fortress protecting the westward approach to the Solent. But it made a better prison, a rough lodging house, with its tunnels, dungeons and distance from the world. On clear days, he could glimpse the Isle of Wight and the Needles, which he had now grown to miss. He stood here less than a mile from his former home, but in truth much further away.

  And there was nothing to do. Beside this winter sea with its dangerous currents, Charles would watch ships pass, by way of entertainment and longing. He would like to sail east himself.

  And looking to France, he thought of Henrietta and his family, and he wondered how they might help him now. Henrietta would be doing her best, he was sure of that, though she did fade in his memory a little, as people do with the passage of time . . . four years now since they’d said goodbye, and he’d ridden his horse along the coast until he could see her ship no more. He’d lost the sound of her voice first. How had she sounded? He loved her, of course; but the loved can fade, first from our minds, then from our hearts. This is how it is, Charles assured himself. Perhaps he would compose around that theme tonight in his spiritual writings. He had been allowed to keep his quills and parchment, and in the evenings, by candlelight, he wrote devotional words to strengthen the weak who would come after him.

  He was encouraged to hear that he would soon be taken to Windsor, for Hurst was no place for a king. Perhaps negotiations could then resume, though there seemed little to talk about. They must see sense in the end, surely? Jane always said they’d see sense in the end and her words were relief for his spirit. Hurst Castle was a brief darkness, a passing shadow; one must presume light ahead, a hopeful dawn. He turned his eyes from the horizon, and, feeling the chill, began the walk back to his cell.

  The soldiers followed, laughing about some matter or other.

  *

  At the other end of the country, Cromwell lay in a tent outside Pontefract.

  It was a freezing sky but no cold kept him wakeful tonight – only a churning spirit. He was lodged, like a wet leaf in a drain; he shouldn’t be here. He knew that Lambert could handle this siege. Lambert was competent; there was nothing that required Oliver to remain . . . apart from his lack of decision. How could he return south when he did not know his mind? It had been a slow falling of snow, but now it lay thick across his mental path: a pilgrim lost. Circumstance had removed all signs from view. Where to go? He would rise now, in the dark, he would walk and he would talk, speak out loud in the cold air, speak to the stars, to those fine portals of light in the darkness.

  ‘This I know,’ he declared to the heavens, ‘that I seek no vengeance on a fallen enemy; that is not my heart. You know that is not my heart! And the death of a king, this is no small matter, no careless act in this nation of royalists. And perhaps I am one of them, a royalist myself, I believe so . . . though maybe there are other ways.’ What was he saying? ‘And I am in no mind to make a martyr out of a miscreant, which appears his desire. I think
he pursues the martyr’s mantle now. Do you not think so?’ He paused for some response from the heavens. ‘And we must consider reaction to such a killing, for reaction there will be. Can we withstand them all in their shock and fury: Presbyterians, French, Dutch and Scots? I tire of the fight; I am tired; I have fought too much and for too long . . .

  ‘Yet I know this. The Lord has witnessed against the king, this is most clear. Do you not see this? At Naseby and Preston, the Lord has made his will most evident. So surely the faithful must witness also? And perhaps a trial, lawfully undertaken, would be a lesson . . . a lesson for all time against encroaching kings. I am not against masters, I am no scraggy Leveller! You know this. But they must be good masters, masters of substance, or else their rank and prerogative become a meaningless thing. Why reverence a brocaded puppet larded by a priest with oil? Kings have their place; but they must also know their place.’

  A change passed through him . . . some strange forming of his soul . . . a moment of peace, unknown for a long while. He gazed again at the heavens, and his final words to the Yorkshire sky spoke themselves, spoke through him, unthought and surprising – but clear: ‘What must be done, Oliver, must be done. Now is the time.’

  He returned to his tent and lay down in sweet clarity until, beneath the stars in the Pontefract dark, Cromwell slipped into the sleep of the decided.

  *

  A few days later, after the rutted journey south, Oliver stood up to speak in parliament, a gathering smaller in number than the one he’d left. He noted the spare seats: all Ireton’s work. The purge he had promised was duly delivered. All king-licking Presbyterians were gone; only true hearts remained in the chamber.

  Wood had informed him of these events when he reached Cheshunt.

  ‘It was yesterday that your son-in-law stripped parliament bare. I presume you knew?’ Cromwell smiled. ‘Then you must practise feigning surprise, Oliver. It is best you are not attached to this.’