This Rough Ocean Page 2

  John set Mary on her fat little feet, for even her slight weight sent an arrow of pain through his shoulder. He examined the toy boat.

  ‘It needs weight in the keel—see, here? Perhaps we can fix a piece of lead to it. We could flatten a musket ball . . .’

  ‘Can we do it now?’ said Ralph. ‘Please, Papa?’

  John saw that Anne was pressing her lips together, holding back laughter.

  ‘No, no,’ he said hastily, ‘now you must go to bed. Tomorrow, if I’m not too late home from the House. Come along, boys. I’ll hear your prayers before bed.’

  Afterwards, John settled to spend a quiet evening with Anne, once the children were abed, seated beside a good fire in the parlour of their cramped London house. French tapestries warmed the walls, and the firelight flickered on polished and carved wood, on imported glass and silver dishes, yet it barely provided room enough for them, this small house, with six servants and five of their seven children to be accommodated. John had rented it after his election to Parliament more than three years earlier, glad of its proximity to the Palace of Westminster, but the lack of space was constricting after Swinfen Hall.

  ‘Most members,’ John had said to his wife when he was elected, ‘regard their country estates as home. They visit Westminster—without their families—only when it suits them to be in London, but I’m determined to live at the heart of affairs.’ He had wanted Anne and the children with him, moving them all to Westminster when he came south to take his seat. Selfish, perhaps, but he could not endure the long Parliamentary terms without them.

  As the house in St Ann’s Lane fell silent about them that evening and its occupants drowsed towards bed, John sat reading an army newsletter just come from Windsor. Its smudged and careless type assured the soldiers that their friends in Parliament ‘do intend this day to declare and protest against the rest and rendezvous on Hounslow Heath and so on to secure those members who declare with the Army’.

  ‘They presumed too much, in that,’ he snorted, laying the paper aside and shifting in the chair to ease his shoulder.

  Anne had let her embroidery fall to her lap and was staring into the fire. She looked up, startled.

  ‘The army faction in the House,’ he explained. ‘They have not taken themselves off to Hounslow to march with the soldiers. It’s not yet come to that. They hold their places in the House, hoping to defeat those of us who are working for peace.’

  ‘You said that the vote had gone against debating the army’s Remonstrance tonight?’

  ‘Aye, that’s but the first step. Tomorrow we debate the Treaty negotiated by the commissioners at Newport. The king has at last agreed to all the conditions we could hope for.’

  ‘Truly?’ Anne exclaimed. ‘Can he be trusted?’

  John shrugged. ‘Judging by his past behaviour, no. But he’s caught fast now. We will bind him with the law. He’s God’s anointed, but God doesn’t sanction his tyranny. We will have peace,’ he said passionately, pounding the chair with his fist, and then regretting it as pain stabbed up his arm. ‘We must have peace, before our poor land bleeds to death, but we must have it on terms that ensure men’s future, safe from the tyranny of bishop or king.’

  ‘And what of the tyranny of the army?’

  ‘As long as Fairfax remains in command . . . He’s a good man, and honourable. But Noll Cromwell is growing too powerful and his son-in-law Ireton has all the makings of a tyrant. If they were to overthrow Fairfax . . . The army must answer to Parliament, not Parliament to the army. I will stake my life on this fight, Anne.’

  She reached out and laid her hand on his sleeve. A long and slender hand, but he knew, too, that it was strong. He took it in his and raised it to his lips. He could smell the faint scent of her: the rosemary with which she rinsed her hair, the lavender laid amongst her linen, the rose-petal cream she made for chapped hands in winter.

  ‘Don’t talk of staking lives, dear heart,’ she said softly. ‘There have been lives enough lost already these six years past.’

  He smiled at her. ‘Nay, it’s but a figure of speech.’

  He poured himself another glass of ale from a crystal jug mounted in silver, which stood on the table beside his chair. His sword hand was steadier now. ‘I forgot: John Crewe sends you his kind remembrance.’

  ‘The commissioners have reached London, then?’

  John laughed exuberantly. ‘Aye, and a fine time they had of it! They got word the army was spreading a net to catch them as they journeyed from the Isle of Wight, so they broke into small parties and rode by deep country lanes and hidden ways. They outfoxed the army and reached Westminster this evening, wet and cold, but jubilant. We’ve chosen Nat Fiennes to speak in defence of the Treaty tomorrow. He’s gone off to consult with Crewe about the terms that the commissioners have brought back with them and what points he’s best to make in the debate.’

  ‘Nat will speak well. And so would you.’

  ‘I’m to speak at the end of the debate, the last speaker before the vote is taken.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Nay, the debate will last all tomorrow and on through Saturday. Perhaps even Monday. The future of the whole nation of England rests on what’s done in Parliament these next few days.’ His voice rose eagerly. ‘It could mean peace at last, Anne! I truly believe we have it almost within our grasp.’

  Anne smiled at him. ‘So if you’re to speak last in the debate, then your business is to persuade the final waverers to vote for peace?’

  ‘Aye. I’ll try my best, God willing.’ He shook his head. ‘There are many who’ll be fearful for their lives, with the army encamped at our doors.’ And was he any better than those miserable soldiers? He who had drawn blood from three men this very night on his own doorstep?

  ‘They surely wouldn’t dare to march on Westminster and the City! Our own Parliamentary army?’

  ‘Not our army any longer, it seems,’ he said grimly. ‘There is talk of a junta.’

  ‘A what? What is that?’

  ‘A fine new notion from Spain.’

  He smiled bitterly, and stood up, his suppressed anxiety driving him to the window, where he thrust aside the heavy curtain of Kidderminster cloth and stared out into the night. The sleet had turned to snow and was settling in a thin crust on the frosted cobbles, where the occasional street torches laid bands of golden light.

  ‘A junta?’ he said. ‘It’s the name for what happens when a secret alliance of men—officers of the army, perhaps, or political men, or both—seizes power and overthrows the lawful government. A new word for new times.’

  ‘John?’ She cleared her throat nervously. ‘Are you in danger? Are we in danger?’

  He came back and knelt on the red Turkey rug at her feet, taking both her hands in his. He must reassure her, but how might he do that and yet speak the truth?

  ‘I pray that the men who were our allies and friends a few months ago,’ he said gently, ‘are not so far descended into villainy that they would do us any real harm. They may want to frighten us a little, to bend us to their will.’

  He thought to tell her of the attack in the lane, but curbed the impulse. She would know soon enough when he undressed for bed. He wished he could spare her the knowledge, but it would be impossible to conceal. She leaned forward and rested her cheek against his.

  ‘All the same,’ she said, ‘I wish the older children were here, under our eye. With Dick away at Charterhouse and now Nan at Perwicks’ school, I’m fearful for them. I can only be easy in my mind when I have all the children about me.’

  ‘Was that why you were deep in study of the fire, when you should be busy at your embroidery?’

  She smiled ruefully. ‘You know me too well. I’ve always accepted that Dick and the other boys must go away to school, but Nan . . . I miss her.’

  ‘She’s well content with the Perwicks. And the country air out at Hackney is far better for the child than these sulphurous city fogs.’

  Yet the rest of the
family must endure them. He seized the poker and stirred the fire. ‘This sea coal gives a fine heat, but the filth of the smoke is monstrous. I’d rather one of our good Swinfen fires from the trees of our own woods.’

  ‘So would I.’ She picked up her needle and threaded it with scarlet silk. ‘Truly, I do know that Nan is happy with the Perwicks. She worships their daughter Susanna.’

  ‘The musical prodigy? You see why I think school is as fitting for our daughters as for our sons? Nan’s a good little musician herself, and this admiration for the other child will spur her on. And the schooling she’ll have with the Perwicks will be more than anything you could give her now at home. Think of all you do.’

  He numbered his points off on his fingers, conscious they had had this argument before and that Anne was still unconvinced.

  ‘The younger children to care for and the new babe on the way. This household to manage. Jack and Francis and Ralph to be taught their letters. And all your duties as the wife of a member of Parliament. Nan is best away at school. In this new world we’re building, women will need learning as well as men.’

  She reached across and ruffled his hair gently. ‘But I miss her, you see. And she’s but eight years old. It’s young for a girl to be away from home.’

  ‘She’ll be home soon for Christmas. And that wild son of ours, too, home from school.’ John shook his head at the thought of Dick, half proud and half exasperated. The boy was careless of money and heedless at his studies; he had all his mother’s beauty and charm without an ounce of her thoughtful care for others or of his own hard-won self-discipline.

  ‘The righteous Puritans haven’t outlawed Christmas altogether, then?’ Anne asked, looking at him slantwise.

  ‘Now, Anne, I want to purify the church myself.’

  ‘And so do I!’ she exclaimed. ‘Of course I’d be glad of an end to the bad practices in the church, and to the greed and arrogance of the bishops, just as you would! But not like the Puritans.’

  She threw aside her needlework, and clasped her hands fiercely in her lap.

  ‘Their views are so extreme, so unforgiving, they frighten me. Is theirs true Christian religion? There are those amongst these arrogant Puritans who think the Elect are themselves so pure that they can decide better than God himself what’s best for the rest of us poor sinners! Doesn’t God rejoice that we honour the day of His Son’s birth? Where do the Elect find harm in that?’

  ‘Hush. Don’t speak so boldly in the hearing of others, or they’ll take you for an Arminian heretic, believing in free will!’ His tone was light, but he glanced towards the window in dread, as if her words might be overheard and reported.

  Anne set her mouth stubbornly, but held her peace.

  ‘I know you miss the country, Anne,’ he said apologetically, ‘and our country ways. A London Yuletide will be a poor substitute for the festival at home.’

  London had its pleasures, but he suspected the days were often a burden to her here in the city. A rising leader of the younger men in the House, spending long hours on important committees, he had little time nowadays to give to his wife and family.

  ‘After Cambridge and Grey’s Inn, this was always my ambition—to enter Parliament. You know that. I never kept it from you.’

  He knew she understood how passionate he was to serve his country, now that the very nature of England had been cast into a crucible. Church, monarchy, government—all would be changed for ever. By his own deeds, he would help to shape the future. Never had she tried to persuade him to any other course, but he knew also that she grieved for what had been lost from their lives these last years. A man’s family might not take such a place of importance in his life when the greater part of his waking hours was devoted to the protection and governing of the land of England. Yet how could he withdraw into private life in times like these? It was the future of his own children at stake, as well as his country.

  Anne took his hand in hers and began to trace the lines on his palm as if she could read his thoughts. The touch of her finger was soft, almost imperceptible, yet it set his blood pounding.

  ‘I would never try to turn you from your purpose,’ she said quietly. ‘Never think that of me. But sometimes I feel . . . John, don’t lose sight of the small, human things in life, in the midst of your great Parliamentary affairs.’

  She searched his face with her wide-set dark eyes, her lips parted as if she were about to say more, then she pressed them together and released his hand.

  John heard her words but only half heeded them, still caught up in his fears about the great changes afoot in the country. He could foresee terrible dangers if these changes came too fast. Already the struggle had brought years of bloody war, and now matters trembled on the brink of further disaster. And yet . . . and yet, in despite of his preoccupations, his body burned for her as her hand slipped away from his.

  ‘If men act with care and compassion,’ he said, clinging to his argument and thrusting aside the urging of his flesh, ‘then at this nick of time there’s hope at last for peace with honour and a way forward to a better world.’

  His eyes glinted as he turned towards her in appeal.

  ‘But Ireton and Cromwell are dangerously greedy for power, Anne. And those madmen, the Diggers—you’ve heard me speak of them?’ His tone hardened with contempt. ‘They’d seize all property and share it out in common to everyone—hard-working citizen or rascally thief alike.’

  He swallowed, watching the quickened beat of the pulse in her neck, longing to reach out and caress her.

  ‘If these radicals prevail, believe me, those men whose property is raided won’t stand by helpless! No, it will mean further bloodshed. And John Lilburne’s Levellers are got into the ranks of the army and have sown dissent amongst the soldiers. Our soldiers.’ His voice rang with angry disdain. ‘Those very soldiers who were raised to uphold the right of the Parliament to govern the country against the tyranny of Charles Stuart.’

  John sighed, abandoning Parliament and army and king and all.

  ‘Come, dear heart,’ he said, holding out his hand to her, ‘it’s time we were abed.’

  She rose and as she did so, looked sharply at him.

  ‘John! What’s that lump on your shoulder? There’s . . . there’s blood soaking through your shirt!’

  John shrugged, then regretted it.

  ‘It’s nothing, nothing but a deep scratch.’

  ‘Dear God!’ she cried, ‘You’ve been attacked! That’s a sword cut! Where did it happen?’

  She reached out a hand towards his shoulder, but he caught it and kissed it.

  ‘Just outside our door. They must have followed me from the House.’

  ‘They? How many?’

  ‘Three. But they were clumsy rogues, paid to do it, I’d wager. Truly, my love, it’s nothing. A dagger in a man’s left hand, not a sword. I gave them far better in return.’

  ‘Oh, John!’

  She threw her arms around him then and held him convulsively, her head on his breast, her whole body riven with sobs. He cradled her in his arms, kissing her hair, her eyelids, her cheek, salty with tears.

  ‘It’s over, beloved. There’s no cause for weeping. Come to bed.’

  Chapter Two

  The army was marching on London. Drenched and shivering, groups of gaunt, ruthless men crouched in whatever temporary shelters they had managed to contrive for themselves on Hounslow Heath. Their Parliamentary allies had not appeared this night to share their misery, although Ireton had sent a message of encouragement to their leaders, rich in promises. To many of them, the promises sounded empty, but the prospect of London, fat London, rich London, was ample compensation.

  

  Before dawn on the first day of December, the sleet began again. It slid down the many small panes of the window overlooking St Ann’s Lane like silk skirts brushing against the glass, intimate but cold. Unable to sleep for the pain of his wound, John lay on his back staring up through the darkness into the
dusty shadows of the canopy above the bed. Beyond the whisper of the sleet, beyond his wife’s soft breathing, there were muffled sounds in the dark streets of Westminster. The night Watch had passed not long since, his lantern in the street outside invading the bedroom with leaping monstrous shapes. All’s well! his cry rang out. Heedless of this hollow assurance, hurrying footsteps echoed a menace on the cobbles, a handcart rattled past. A pause, and then a group of people heading towards Palace Yard on their way to escape across the river. A child cried fretfully, and was hushed.

  John flung himself restlessly on to his side. The approaching soldiers were cold, hungry, and penniless. The anger which had carried them successfully through the renewed campaigns of the summer and autumn—anger which had been directed against the king and his new Scottish allies—that anger had festered, brewing into a deep resentment towards London and Parliament. The soldiers reasoned that, if ever they were to lay hands on their arrears of pay, they would find it in the City and Westminster. They were willing to help themselves to goods in lieu of currency. Rumours of boundless pickings flowed amongst the soldiers—chests of coin in Goldsmiths’ Hall, furs and plate and jewels in the homes of wealthy men, whatever their persuasion: King’s men or Parliament men.

  John and his fellows in the House had received fair warning of the danger. Ten days ago they had been obliged to sit for all of four hours, listening sullenly to the Grand Remonstrance. When the Commons had voted that first time to postpone discussion of this inflammatory document, the military delegation had openly threatened the members with violence as they left the House. Now people were fleeing London and Westminster in ever-growing panic, not merely the few remaining Royalists and the rich merchants, but ordinary citizens who feared for their lives and property if the soldiers should be set loose on the city.

  How best to act, to keep safe the nation and her people? To bring peace at last after the long years of desperate and bloody warfare across the quiet shires of England? Surely, all good men must stand firm in the face of these threats from the army? Parliament must be persuaded to follow the path to peace. And it was in Parliament that both John’s duty and his talent lay. None had been more surprised than John when, as a young man, he had discovered in himself a talent to sway men by his gift of speaking. Words flowed from him when he stood to address the House, a kind of verbal music. Thought took life as speech, effortlessly.