This Rough Ocean Read online

  Chapter Three

  Not five minutes’ walk away, jostled and elbowed aside at the top of Westminster Stairs, Anne wished she had yielded to John’s demand that morning. It was not in John’s nature to enforce obedience, but she had seen the glint of impatience in his eyes when she had insisted on persevering with her plans to meet his sister at the New Exchange and now she regretted venturing out in this crowd. Obedience did not come naturally to her. As she had grown to womanhood she had learned to curb the eagerness and independence she had enjoyed during an easy-going childhood, running wild with her brothers and avoiding her sisters’ quieter pleasures of embroidery and lace-making. Much of the time she was content to live within the cage to which her sex and rank and marriage confined her, but from time to time her instinctive urge to freedom drove her to rattle the bars. Caught now in this heaving mass of frightened humanity whose very fear filled the air around her with its rank smell, she knew that John had been right. It would have been wiser to remain at home.

  ‘Oars!’ shouted Patience Wyatt, cupping her hands around her mouth. ‘Eastward ho!’

  Many of the families who lived in Westminster were crowding on to the river boats to be ferried across to the far side of the Thames with their bundles of clothes and household treasures hastily snatched up. For the most part they were women and children. The husbands, having deposited them in the crowd waiting on the slippery bank above the river, hastened away home to board up their shops and prepare to defend their property against the looting of the army.

  ‘The soldiers has reached Knightsbridge,’ said a woman standing beside Anne.

  She was pale and distraught, clutching a child with each hand, a baby tied in a shawl on her breast. ‘Raping the women and slitting the throats of them as stands in their way. We’m going to my sister in Bermondsey, but. . .’ she gave a gasping sob, ‘my man won’t come with us, he fears for his hammers and chisels and his store of fine timber. I doubt us’ll ever see him again.’

  ‘They’re our own soldiers,’ Anne protested. ‘I’m sure these are false rumours. They wouldn’t turn on the citizens of London! Many of them are London men themselves. Of what profit would it be to set upon their own families and those of their neighbours?’

  The woman fixed on her a look of scornful pity. ‘A lady like you knows nothing of what yon scum will do. Them as takes to the army an’t the men they was once, they’m beasts. My cousin lives near Leeds, up Yorkshire way. They was sacked first by the king’s men and then Parliament’s. Or was it ’tother way about? Meant naught to the soldiers—dirty, thieving rats, all o’ them!’

  ‘Mistress,’ said Patience, plucking at Anne’s sleeve, ‘this waterman says he will take us to the City, but you must come now.’

  Anne fumbled in her drawstring pocket through the placket in her overskirt and pressed a silver sixpence into the woman’s hand. ‘This may help with food for the children. God go with you.’

  They had to make their way across the fish-reeking Thames mud, for the tide was low, the water two yards beyond the last of the steps. The weak morning light gleamed in dizzy loops across this marginal world of earth and water and mirrored sky. The waterman’s boat was slippery with the mud tracked into it that morning, by the many feet which had churned up river banks already sodden with the melting snow. Patience spread handkerchiefs to protect their skirts from the filthy seat, where the mud shimmered in the low winter sun with the prismatic rainbow of a mackerel’s scales. As the man pulled down river the sleet began again. Out on the water the sharp wind caught them, so that the two women huddled together, their hoods thrown up over their hats, their faces down-turned to avoid its bite. Overhead, gulls shrieked and swooped. From time to time Patience peeked out from beneath the edge of her hood at the ocean-going ships anchored in the river, the coal barges unloading fuel for London’s thousands of fires, and the busy wherries scurrying across to the southern bank laden with those fleeing the city. She was but sixteen, newly come to London as Anne’s waiting woman in the place of an elder sister who had returned to Staffordshire to be wed, and the sight of the Thames with its thronging life was still strange to her.

  Anne wished again that she had not come. Grace’s tailor in the New Exchange would entertain them with wine and sweet cakes while they fingered his stock of fabrics and debated every detail of the new gown. It would occupy an hour at the least, perhaps two. Then she had her own purchases to make. Despite the frowning disapproval of Christmas amongst the sectaries, the Swynfens still exchanged small remembrances of the Christ Child’s birthday. For John she was embroidering and beading a doublet which he would consider too bright and gaudy for a man of sober tastes, but which he would wear for her sake. She was spending too long over the work, for she was an idle and impatient needlewoman. There would be no time for her to make any other gifts, so she must buy some trifles for the children from the toy shop in the Exchange. By the time all was done at the shops, the over-clouded day would be seeping away and they would have to return up river to Westminster in the dusk.

  Yet after they had regained the shore and walked along the Strand to the New Exchange, the women felt somewhat reassured. The wind had dropped and the sleet, for the moment, ceased. Amongst the bustling crowds here in the City, there did not seem to be the same fear abroad as had infected Westminster. A few miles further east, a few miles further from the approaching army, the citizens were less afraid.

  All the same, the effects of war had penetrated this quiet privileged place, even the finest dressmaker in the New Exchange, where Grace, with her maid Judith, was awaiting Anne.

  ‘I’m afraid I can offer you little choice, Mistress Coleman,’ said George Cutler, the master tailor, as he signalled to his boy to bring out the bolts of cloth and lay them on the long cutting table. He smoothed the material with long, clever fingers. ‘Trade with Venice and the Levant has near enough come to an end, with the Dutch and the French and privateers of every nation taking advantage of our poor country’s sad state. Only one ship in five has been making port unmolested, and many of our merchants have abandoned trade altogether until the war is over. I haven’t been able to lay hands on any silk damask or velvet for a twelvemonth.’

  Anne fingered a length of moss green velvet. It was thin, and had creased even in the bolt.

  ‘Poor stuff, I know,’ said Cutler. ‘I took it because the man had nothing else, but I wouldn’t recommend it.’

  They turned over the small selection of cloth. The big window which gave the tailor and his journeymen light for their fine work showed up the lack of colour and quality in the goods. One crimson damask shone out amongst the dowdier fabrics, but there was no more left than would make a gown for a young child. Grace’s mouth turned down with disappointment.

  ‘There is just this,’ said the tailor, as his boy lifted a small bolt of tabby silk on to the table. ‘Left from before the war. You are slight of figure, Mistress Coleman, and if I pieced it with panels of white taffeta in the skirt . . . I have enough, I think.’

  Later, seated in the Cutlers’ parlour, Anne questioned him about the apparent calm they had noticed amongst the City crowds.

  ‘In Westminster, people are closing up their homes and fleeing,’ she said.

  ‘We’re far from easy in our minds,’ Cutler said. ‘Some are making arrangements to leave. I think we can’t quite believe the army will seize the City, but if it happens, terror will surely sweep through the streets.’

  He had noted Grace’s requirements and was pouring out more wine as a diversion for his customers before he was obliged to tell them the calculated cost of the new gown.

  ‘It’s said the Lord Mayor sat up all night,’ he added, ‘trying to devise ways of raising the forty thousand pounds the army is demanding.’

  ‘Forty thousand pounds!’ Patience exclaimed. ‘Why, that’s a king’s ransom!’

  ‘You speak truer than you know,’ said Anne. ‘A nation’s ransom, rather.’

  Mistress Cutler came into
the parlour carrying a tray with small Delft dishes of curds and cream, which she placed on the table before them. She took pewter spoons from her pocket and polished them on her apron before handing them to her husband and his customers, then withdrew quietly.

  ‘Is John much occupied in Parliament?’ Grace asked, shaking sugar over the curds from a pewter caster and dipping into her dish. She was nearly twelve years younger than her brother, and had spent some time in Westminster with Anne and John until her marriage to Charles Coleman in October two years before. Now she lived in Holborn and moved in very different company, the company of composers and musicians and singers, far from news of Westminster.

  ‘Much occupied,’ said Anne briefly, wary of speaking before the tailor. She had known him since they had first come to London, and she trusted him, but the elegant shops of the tailors in the New Exchange were hives of London gossip. Any careless remark made here would be repeated all over the City before nightfall.

  She spooned up the sweet curds and cream, which were flavoured delicately with orange-water and scattered with crystallised rose petals.

  ‘Have you seen Charles’s brother of late?’ she asked, sipping the fine Canary wine. ‘Does he still teach music to the girls at Perwicks’ school?’

  Grace clapped her hand to her mouth. ‘I had quite forgot!’ She fumbled in her basket and brought out a small package. ‘Edward gave me this two days since. He knew I was to meet you, and when he saw Nan at school on Monday, she begged him to bring it.’

  Anne set down her wine glass and unfolded the packet. It was a small sampler, surprisingly not too ill made, with borders of many different coloured stitches on the ivory canvas and a motto at the centre:

  GoD is My HElp

  My GuiDe & freinD

  Anne Swynfen

  Aged 8 yearsË 1648

  ‘Nan wanted you to know that she spends her time well at school,’ said Grace.

  ‘A most pious sentiment,’ said Anne, composing her face to severity. ‘Such housewifely skills as this I could teach her at home, without the heartache of being parted from her. There needs no costly school in Hackney.’ She turned away, that Grace might not see her eyes. ‘I thought she was to learn French and music and the use of the globes, and even Latin and figuring.’

  ‘I am sure she learns all these things, except perhaps the Latin. Edward says the Perwicks have very modern ideas about the teaching of girls. And Susanna Perwick is grown so famous that the most distinguished men visit the school to hear her play and sing. This must widen the girls’ view of the world, surely?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Anne finished her curds and gathered up the ribbons she had bought from Mistress Cutler for Nan’s Christmas gift. ‘Come, Patience, we must make our other purchases before the afternoon is quite gone.’

  

  John’s party in the Commons had achieved their first small triumph that day, having won the right to discuss the terms brought back by Crewe and the other commissioners after nearly three months of bitter and labyrinthine negotiations with Charles Stuart on the Isle of Wight. The debate opened with a number of outbursts from those members who were always the first to speak without pondering their words. Mostly they came from the war party, who shouted abuse, demanded the consideration of the Remonstrance in the place of the Treaty, or merely tried to score points off personal enemies in the House. One or two of the wavering sort, anxious for the safety of themselves and their property, urged the necessity of placating the advancing army.

  ‘For,’ said one, ‘the army will be unforgiving towards any who urge Parliament to deal with the king. In the eyes of the common soldier, all their troubles, all the death and maiming of the last six years, can be laid at Charles Stuart’s door. Any who deal with him, deal with the devil.’

  When these eager members had ceased jumping to their feet and waving their hats for attention, Speaker Lenthall acknowledged the flourish of Nat Fiennes’s hat and his discreetly raised eyebrow, and called on him to take the floor. The Speaker’s long face was impassive as he placed his hands palm to palm and rested his chin on his finger tips, like a man deep in prayer. He affected an old-fashioned style, wearing ruff and pointed beard like one of Elizabeth’s courtiers, with a pearl ear-ring dangling from his right ear like a frozen tear drop.

  He was a dark and inscrutable man, who was famous for his courage in standing up to the bullying tactics of the king towards earlier Parliaments. Yet the previous year, during the troubled times when the soldiers were in a state of mutiny and Parliament voted to disband the army, Lenthall had deserted his post and taken refuge amongst the officers. Though not openly avowed at present, these inclinations of his would make him tend towards Ireton’s camp, but he was judicial and fair. John could not like him, but he held him in great respect. Under Lenthall’s direction, all sides would be heard in this debate and the due processes of Parliament would be observed.

  Nat Fiennes rose to his feet, glanced about him and waited until the noisy jeering from the opposite benches had subsided, then he began to set out the terms the king had finally agreed. John realised Nat had laid aside his usual ebullience, and chosen to speak in a quiet and measured voice, in which he detected Crewe’s guiding hand.

  ‘His Majesty has made most of the concessions demanded by the army,’ Fiennes began, ‘allowing reimbursement for their arrears of pay and recognising the de facto structure of army command. In addition, he has agreed that Parliament, and not the king, should have the right to appoint the great officers of state.’

  There were a few shouts of ‘Hear, hear!’ at this news.

  He smiled wryly. ‘His Majesty has not demeaned himself so far as to apologise for the war! But he has agreed to pay reparations through the sequestration of Royalist estates. He has conceded the freedom of Parliament to raise taxes and enact laws, and renewed the pledge that this present Parliament shall continue to sit until it chooses to dissolve itself for new elections.’

  There was a murmur amongst the men seated on the green benches, and the leather creaked as some turned about and smiled hopefully at each other. The very air in the chamber seemed clearer.

  ‘Better terms than our army friends would force upon this House,’ Clotworthy muttered in John’s ear. ‘It’s my belief they are bent upon dissolving Parliament.’

  ‘Finally, there is the matter of religion and the abuses practised by the bishops,’ Fiennes said, ‘begun under the influence of Laud.’

  There was a sudden stillness in the chamber. The bishops’ depredations, along with the king’s arbitrary taxes, had been the root cause of men’s original anger and rebellion against the old state of the kingdom.

  ‘The difference,’ Fiennes continued, ‘between a moderate episcopacy and Presbyterianism—advocated by most sitting here in this House—is a mere form of words.’

  Moderate. But who could moderate the behaviour of the bishops?

  ‘Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?’ John murmured.

  Fiennes paused, to give his next words full weight.

  ‘His Majesty has agreed to a suspension of the episcopacy for a period of three years, after which it will be suspended permanently unless Parliament rules otherwise.’

  Suspension?

  A wave of noise rippled around the House, from those members who had not yet heard whispers of what had been agreed in the Treaty. Not long ago it would have been inconceivable that Charles would make such extraordinary concessions. Grant Parliament all the rights it demanded? Concede its right to raise taxes and appoint the officers of state? Even abolish the bishops? Surely every member must be overjoyed at this news! It cut away the grounds for further war.

  ‘To refuse so fair an offer,’ Fiennes said, ‘were to betray the weakness of the Presbyterian cause, as if it would not endure the test of a three years’ trial.’

  Men were nodding and murmuring agreement in every part of the House, even some of those who clung about the coat-tails of the army party.

  ‘In short,’ Fiennes
concluded, his voice ringing out clear and triumphant, ‘His Majesty’s concessions over the militia, over the appointment of officers of state, and over the Church are enough to secure religion, laws, and liberties!’

  He paused again.

  ‘Since these are the only things which Parliament has so often declared to be the ground of our quarrel with the Crown, nothing further is necessary to be conceded by the king. I commend this Treaty to the approval of the House.’

  He sat down amidst a roar of cheering which had not been heard in that troubled House for many months.

  ‘Peace!’ said Clotworthy. ‘We are sure of it.’

  ‘I pray so,’ said John, ‘with all my heart.’

  A few of the talkative sort attempted to interject their petty concerns into the debate, including the newly rich Edmund Harvey, babbling on about leases and tenure, almost unheard over the rising discussion along the benches, which the Speaker finally managed to suppress. The radicals seized this moment to put a motion to reject the Treaty, but they had misjudged their time. Instead, the motion to adjourn the debate on the Treaty, and resume it later, was passed by one hundred and thirty-three votes to one hundred and two. The whole body of the Commons was buzzing like a hive of bees.

  As they rose from their seats to leave, John caught up with a young man from the West Country, an ally of his party, who had voted against adjourning the debate, and seized him urgently by the arm.

  ‘What is this!,’ he cried. ‘I had thought you were with us, and yet you voted against adjournment.’

  ‘Aye, but surely we might bring this matter to a successful conclusion this very day! The war party will not prevail. Why delay?’

  John held him back and swung him round to confront him face to face.

  ‘We may repudiate everything these men propose, but we must maintain their right to speak their minds.’

  His voice rose as he stood firm in the crowd which was trying to push past him.

  ‘Don’t you understand? This is the very thing we are fighting for. No vote must be taken until every man who wishes to speak has done so. Every man. Even those whose views we find repulsive. That is the principle on which Parliament is founded.’ His voice shook. ‘If we suppress the right of our enemies to speak, what right have we to consider ourselves any better than a tyrannical king?’